THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS 


POEMS 


BY 


JOHANNA     AMBROSIUS 


ttH  bg 
PROFESSOR   KARL    SCHRATTENTHAL 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 

^Translate*) 
Bv  MARY  J.  SAFFORD 

FROM   THE   TWENTY-SIXTH   EDITION 


BOSTON 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS 
1896 


Copyright,  1896, 
BY  ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


?T 


TO 

THE    GERMAN    NATION 


853G28 


TRANSLATOR'S   PREFACE. 


IN  making  this  English  version  of  the  poems  of 
JOHANNA  AMBROSIUS,  the  translator's  aim  has  been 
to  reproduce  the  work  of  the  author  as  faithfully  as 
the  transfer  from  one  language  to  another  would  per- 
mit, retaining  not  only  the  thought,  but  the  alterna- 
tions of  rhyme,  the  number  of  syllables  in  each  line, 
etc.  If  a  smoother  flow  of  the  English  verse  would 
sometimes  have  resulted  from  a  less  accurate  render- 
ing, it  is  believed  that  the  readers  of  this  volume 
will  prefer  the  closer  following  of  the  writings  of  this 
remarkable  woman.  Instances  of  exceptions  to  this 
rule  are  the  poems,  "  The  Blind  Woman  and  the  Deaf 
Mute,"  and  "Our  Weakness  ;  "  where,  more  closely  to 
follow  the  thought  of  the  poetess,  —  which  has  invari- 
ably been  the  first  consideration,  —  the  lines  are  all 
ten  syllables  in  length,  while  in  the  original  they  are 
alternately  ten  and  eleven. 

MARY   J.  SAFFORD. 


TO 


iSmpress  of 


THE    PRINCESS   WHO    IN    HER    PALACE    HEARD   AND    HELD 

A      HELPING    HAND   TO    HER   SISTER-WOMAN, 

THE    PEASANT    IN    HER    HUT, 

THE    AMERICAN    EDITION    OF    THE    POEMS    OF 
JOHANNA  AMBROSIUS   IS  DEDICATED. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 
INTRODUCTION  .  xxv 


SONG  AND   SORROW. 

INVITATION 3 

AT  THE  FIRESIDE 5 

IT  is  ENOUGH 7 

EjACULATORY  PRAYER  8 

MY  FRIEND 9 

CONFLICT  AND  PEACE 10 

THE  POET n 

MY  MUSE 13 

DOST  THOU  ASK? 15 

MY  SONG      17 

MY  LOVE 19 

FOR  THEE     .  21 


PICTURES   OF   LIFE. 

THE  BLIND  WOMAN  AND  THE  DEAF  MUTE     ....  25 

LET  HER  SLEEP 28 

THE  OLD  MAID 31 

A  MAY  NIGHT 33 

THE  FAIREST  SPRING 35 

MY  WORLD 37 


XIV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  LITTLE  GOLD  RING 39 

A  SUMMER  NIGHT 40 

HOME 41 

MY  NATIVE  LAND 43 

"VILLAGE  BY  THE  SPRING" 45 

PICTURES    OF   THE   COUNTRY. 

GOOD  LUCK 51 

PEACE 54 

SWEET  LITTLE  MARIE 56 

A  PUBLIC  DANCE 58 

A  POEM  OF  SPRING 60 

ONCE  FARED  I  FORTH  INTO  THE  WORLD 62 

THE  LUNCHEON 64 

LITTLE  BERNHARD 66 

THE  LAST  LETTER 68 

LYRICS   OF   LOVE. 

THY  Kiss 71 

MY  PART  THOU  HAST  AYE  TAKEN 72 

PASSED  BY 73 

OH,  TORTURE  NOT  MY  SOUL 74 

MY  LOYAL  LOVE 75 

WHY  I  WEEP 77 

? 78 

AH,  BIND  MY  HANDS 79 

THOU So 

I  HAVE  LOVED 81 

AH,  HAD  I  SEEN  THEE  SOONER 82 

THUS  IT  Is 83 

THE  SOUND  OF  THE  BELL 84 

WEEP  NOT,  FOR  I  LOVE  THEE 85 

MEMENTO  MORI                                    86 


CONTENTS.  XV 


VOICES   OF   REVERENCE. 

PAGE 

To  THE  EMPRESS 91 

CARMEN  SYLVA 93 

To  KARL  STIELER 94 

To  MY  REVERED  TEACHER  08 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

I  WOULD  BE  THE  SUN 103 

PAST 104 

BEFORE  THE  JUDGMENT-SEAT 106 

THROUGH  THE  FIELD  I  WANDERED  DREAMING     .    .  109 

To  A  YOUNG  GIRL in 

A  QUESTION 112 

FAREWELL 113 

NOT  IN  THE  GLOOMY  LAP  OF  EARTH 115 

OH,  MOTHER  DEAR! 117 

WHILE  THOU  WERT  SITTING  SADLY 119 

IN  THE  WATER 120 

THE  SKIFF 122 

RETALIATION 124 

THE  SONG  OF  MY  LITTLE  LAD 125 

MY  BOY 127 

To  MY  DAUGHTER 129 

BEAUTIFUL  EYES 130 

NIGHT 133 

OPEN  THY  HEART 134 

OH,  LOVE  THOU  TOO       135 

To  MY  ROSE 137 

I  AM  FREEZING 139 

I  GREET  THEE 140 

DISAPPOINTED 141 

No  SONG  CAN  I  SUCCEED  IN  SINGING 142 

UNTIL  WE  MEET  AGAIN 143 

STARS  THE  SKY  ARE  FILLING 144 


XVI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

WHAT  I  LOVE 145 

PAIN  YOU  'VE  GIVEN 147 

WOULD  I  WERE  DEAD 148 

VANISHED 150 

HUSH 151 

THE  DELUSION  OF  GRANDEUR 152 

AUTUMN 153 

POETIC  TRIFLES 155 

IN  AN  ALBUM 157 

SOME  DAY 158 

THE  VILLAGE  HOSPITAL 159 

FULL 161 

REFUGE 163 

THE  LEAVES  ARE  FALLING 164 

I  HAVE  SEEN 165 

THE  MAID-SERVANT  IN  MOURNING 166 

FREE 167 

MY  LIFE 168 

A  CHILD  is  WEEPING 169 

To  THE  MOON 171 

MY  HEART 173 

FOUND 174 

IN  THE  FOREST 176 

HOMELESS 177 

THOU  AND  I 179 

FOR  MY  CHILD 180 

PARTED 182 

AT  PARTING 184 

To  A  RICH  MAN 185 

To  MY  DAUGHTER  ON  HER  CONFIRMATION  DAY    .    .  187 

MY  HAPPINESS 189 

AN  AUTUMN  NIGHT 191 

THY  PICTURE 192 

TO  THE  SZESZUPPE 193 

To  MY  ERICH 195 

VINDICATION 197 


CONTENTS.  xvii 

PAGE 

THE  BUTTERFLY 198 

To  MY  READERS 199 

FIRST  LOVE 200 

THE  LAST  SONG 201 

THE  RETURN  HOME 203 

To  LITERARY  CRITICISM 204 

LOCK  WHATSOE'ER  MOVES  THEE 206 

WEARY 207 

FATA  MORGANA 208 

I  HAPPINESS  WOULD  FAIN  CALL  MINE 209 

AFTER  YEARS 211 

I  HAVE  PRAYED       213 

THE  RINGING  OF  THE  BELL 214 

BY  LOOKING  IN  THINE  EYES  I  SEE 216 

MY  WISH 217 

OUR  WEAKNESS 218 

LOST  HAPPINESS          219 


JOHANNA  AMBROSIUS  :  A  REVIEW  UY  HERMAN  GRIMM    221 
JOHANNA  AMBROSIUS 237 


INDEX   OF   FIRST    LINES. 


PACK 

A  BUTTERFLY  splendid 198 

Admit  into  thy  silent  breast 134 

A  gleaming  pearl  lay  on  the  strand 141 

Ah,  bind  my  outstretched  hands,  I  pray 79 

Ah,  had  I  thee  but  sooner  seen •     .     .     .  82 

Ah,  let  me  too,  among  the  children  ling'ring 98 

Ah  !  Marie,  my  own  sweet  Marie  so  dear 56 

Ah,  not  in  forest,  nor  moorlands  sun-lighted 120 

Ah,  wouldst  thou  e'en  once  at  me  gaze 80 

A  little  heart  to  judgment-seat  was  brought 106 

All  my  life  long  I  've  wandered  on  so  sadly 168 

All  tell  me  that  thou  art  not  fair 43 

Art  thou,  poor  rich  man,  happiness  pursuing?     ....  185 

As  from  the  bush  a  rose  we  break 19 

As  guerdon  for  my  songs,  to  me  you  've  given      ....  199 

Askest  thou  why  in  mine  eyes 15 

A  sky  always  cloudless 145 

A  song  of  my  creating 201 

At  dawn  of  ev'ry  morning 85 

Autumn  night,  in  moonlight  lying 191 

A  warm  thatched  roof,  'neath  which  peer  windows  small  .  37 

BY  looking  in  thine  eyes  I  see 216 

"CAN'T  the  child  yet  walk  alone?" 112 

Close  by  the  churchyard,  in  narrow  vale 159 

Come  to  my  heart,  rose  lightly  swaying 137 


XX  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

DIED  away,  in  silence  endless 150 

E'EN  as  the  wand'rer  for  the  forest's  shadow 130 

Even  though  vales  and  mounts  may  sever 182 

FAIN  would  I  see  thee  silken  garments  wearing  ....  129 

For  thee,  my  child,  oft  I  lie  waking 180 

From  hills  so  gently  sloping 45 

Full  many  songs  forth  I  've  been  sending 125 

GIVE  me  one  more  clasp  of  thy  hand 184 

God  bless  thee,  German  Empress  fair  ! 91 

Grave  by  grave  and  cross  by  cross     .         161 

HE  comes  with  breezes  blowing 60 

Her  soft,  cool  arms  extending 40 

How  colorless  the  sky  and  dreary 133 

How  in  thy  sweet  songs  ringing 94 

How  long,  how  long  for  thee  I  've  sought 174 

How  long  without  wilt  thou  waiting  stand  ? 3 

Hush,  hush!     .     .     .     • 151 

I  BEAR  a  joy,  a  lofty  joy 167 

I  happiness  would  fain  call  mine .     .  209 

I  have  drunk  deep  of  the  flaming 81 

I  lay  upon  my  mother's  breast 177 

I  love  the  dusky  twilight  hour 5 

In  dreams  I  once  —  I  cannot  now  help  smiling    ....  152 

In  winter's  cold  I  sat  my  window  near 35 

I  see  thee  in  the  water  clear 208 

Is  this  really  my  own  roof-tree 211 

It  is  enough  !     Cease  thine  assailing 7 

It  lies  in  the  dust,  my  fair  jewel  bright 204 

"  I  've  borne  so  much  already  " 73 

I  've  seen  the  delicate  golden-haired  child 165 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  xxi 

PAGE 

JOIN  not  the  ranks  of  poets,  my  son 195 

KNOWN  are  we  women  as  the  weaker  sex 218 

LOCK  whatsoe'er  moves  thee 206 

Love  so  fair  in  vernal  beauty 200 

MANY  have  written  on  this  book's  fair  pages 1 57 

Midst  a  crowd  disorderly 58 

Midst  the  fields  of  growing  crops  encircled 54 

Mid  sunshine's  glow  I  freezing  stand 139 

Mid  tempest's  roar  and  the  rain's  white  foam      ....  64 

Mother,  once  more  set  the  bench  by  the  hearth  ....  203 

My  child,  be  good ! 187 

My  daughter,  be  the  rich  man's  wife 51 

My  dear  child,  canst  thou  recall 84 

My  heart  is  strong  as  a  sturdy  oak 173 

My  native  land  I  will  not  leave 41 

My  part  thou  hast  aye  taken 72 

My  pilgrim  staff  is  close  at  hand 113 

My  song  I  will  not  sell  for  gold 17 

My  verse  to  thee  I  'm  dedicating 9 

"  NAUGHT  can  with  breeze  of  Spring  compare  "      .     .     .  117 

No  one  'mong  children  good  me  named 124 

No  song  can  I  succeed  in  singing 142 

Not  even  once  have  I  looked  on  thy  face 93 

Not  in  the  gloomy  lap  of  earth 115 

"  Now  the  address  "  —  words  from  her  wan  lips  slipping  .  68 

OH,  come,  fair  moonlight  that  I  love 171 

Oh,  could  I  but  once  more  have  gazed  into 86 

Oh,  do  not  torture  thus  my  soul 74 

Oh,  kindred  soul,  I  give  thee  greeting 140 

Oh,  say  ye  not  always,  the  North-land  is  poor     ....  197 

Once  again,  o'er  all  the  land 153 


xxii  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

Once  fared  I  forth  the  evil  world  into 62 

Once  I  lived  from  day  to  day 13 

Once  unto  me  a  rose  thou  gavest 83 

PAIN  you  've  given,  bitter  pain 147 

SITTING,  one  fair,  bright  spring  morning 66 

So  dearly  I  love  thee,  beyond  belief 21 

Some  day  this  brain  with  thoughts  that  blaze      ....  158 

Some  laugh  as  she  goes  by  —  and  some  deride    ....  31 

Stars  the  sky  are  filling ! 144 

Strife  for  a  quarter-century 10 

Sun,  the  sun,  I  fain  would  be 103 

THAT  thou  mightst  happy  be,  I  once  did  pray    ....  213 

The  day  was  closing  now,  after  its  fierce  contending    .     .  214 

The  days  of  youth  passed  swiftly  by 104 

The  kiss  which  rested  on  thy  lips 71 

The  leaves  are  falling,  so  soft  and  light 164 

The  moon  is  rising  !     With  one  more  breath  gasping       .  33 

The  nightingale  's  sighing 75 

The  sons  of  many  other  mothers 127 

There  is  no  grief  on  earth,  however  fell 8 

The  townfolk  hold  their  yearly  fair  to-day 25 

The  waves  are  all  whisp'ring 135 

They  laugh  at  me  because,  a  servant-maid 166 

Thou  askest  why  I  'm  weeping  ? 77 

Thou  movest  onward  with  drooping  head 179 

Through  the  field  I  wandered  dreaming 109 

To  Heav'n  I  've  raised  my  cries  appealing 163 

To  me  thy  picture  's  dearer  far 192 

UNTIL  we  meet  again !  it  hopeful  rings 143 

WAVES,  where  are  ye  going 193 

What  aileth  thee,  O  red  rose  blushing 207 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  xxiii 

PAGE 

What  can  afflict  the  child  thus  weeping  ? 169 

What  is  it  here  within  my  breast 78 

What  I  would  wish  for  is  nor  praise  nor  fame     ....  217 

What  needs  the  poet  for  his  singing? n 

Where  happiness,  still,  calm,  and  pure 155 

Where  shall  I  take  my  love  ?     I  'm  weary 189 

Where  the  golden  corn  is  rustling  and  the  .forest's  shadow  28 

Where  to  its  rest  the  sun  is  hasting in 

While  thou  wert  sitting  sadly  grieving 119 

Why  lurest  thou  with  golden  glitter 39 

With  happiness  its  precious  freight 219 

Within  the  forest  shades  to  live  and  die 176 

With  low  clanking,  a  chain 's  holding 122 

Would  I  were  dead !     How  sweet  must  sleep  be,  lying    .  148 


INTRODUCTION. 


TN  my  volume,  "  German  Women  in  Modern  Lyric 
•*-  Poetry,"  I  have  already  ventured  to  express  the 
opinion  that,  in  view  of  the  remarkable  poetic  and 
literary  productions  of  many  German  women  of  the 
present  time,  this  might  be  termed  a  brilliant  epoch 
of  feminine  literature.  I  should  be  reluctant  to  have 
this  statement  misunderstood.  It  by  no  means  refers 
to  the  fact,  in  many  respects  a  lamentable  one,  that  it 
is  women  who,  especially  in  the  domain  of  fiction,  are 
displaying  an  activity  which  scarcely  permits  even  the 
most  zealous  observer  to  make  an  adequate  record; 
nor  to  the  circumstance  that  women  authors  predomi- 
nate in  the  family  papers.  I  merely  wish  to  assert 
that,  among  the  large  number  of  the  literary  women 
of  the  last  decades  of  this  century,  there  are  many 
who,  by  the  value  of  their  poetic  work,  the  peculiarity 
of  their  intellectual  creations,  demand  the  recognition 
not  only  of  the  great  reading  public,  but  also  of  the 
serious  worshipper  of  art,  as  well  as  the  historian  of 
literature  who  judges  with  keen  objectivity.  So  the 


XXvi  INTRODUCTION. 

statement  is  not  caused  by  the  mass  of  literary  pro- 
ductions, nor  by  the  great  number  of  women  who  are 
striving  for  the  laurels  of  poetry,  but  by  the  actual 
importance  of  the  productions  themselves,  which  ought 
not  to  be  overlooked  in  any  history  of  letters,  and 
which  show  us  the  feminine  literature  of  our  own  time 
in  its  full  florescence. 

That  many  critics  and  historians  of  literature  hold  a 
different  opinion,  we  can  daily  convince  ourselves. 

I  seek  and  find  the  basis  of  such  phenomena,  not  in 
the  fact  that  the  critic  in  question  reaches  adverse 
opinions  in  consequence  of  his  view  or  conviction  of 
woman's  capacity  in  the  domain  of  intellect,  nor  even 
that  the  fear  of  a  competition,  which  may  indeed  arouse 
anxiety,  in  some  degree  incites  him  to  the  warfare 
against  women's  writings,  —  no !  the  former  would 
be  very  narrow-minded,  the  latter  unlovely  and  ignoble. 
I  find  the  source  of  these  phenomena  solely  in  the  fact 
that  these  critics  have  not  properly  surveyed  the  un- 
deniably over-large  field  of  feminine  literature.  Were 
this  done,  many  verdicts  would  become  more  lenient. 

I  willingly  admit,  nay,  I  have  even  frequently  said,  that 
during  the  examination  of  the  lyric  poetry  of  the 
women  of  our  day,  in  the  presence  of  the  countless 
volumes  in  which  equally  numberless  women  perpet- 
uate —  that  is,  seek  to  perpetuate  —  their  well  or  ill 
scanned  joys  and  woes,  one  may  with  justice  despair- 
ingly exclaim  :  "  The  spirit  of  God  did  not  hover  over 


INTRODUCTION;  xxvii 

these  waters  !  "  But  even  the  critic  whose  demands  are 
the  most  rigid  and  exacting  cannot  help  readily  admit- 
ting—  that  is,  if  he  has  surveyed  the  field  —  that  the 
lyrical  productions  of  the  recently  deceased  Betty  Paoli, 
of  Countess  Wickenburg-Almasy,  also  dead,  as  well  as 
of  the  poetesses  Ada  Christen,  Carmen  Sylva,  Helene 
von  Engelhardt,  Use  Frapan,  Giinther  von  Freiberg, 
Amara  George,  Amelie  Godin,  M.  E.  delle  Grazie, 
M.  Hellmuth,  Angelika  von  Hermann,  Ricarda 
Huch,  M.  Janitschek,  Agnes  Kayser-Langerhauss, 
Isolde  Kurz,  M.  von  Najmajer,  Alberta  von  Puttkammer, 
Emil  Roland,  Frida  Schanz,  and  Countess  S.  Wald- 
burg,  at  least  should  not  be  overlooked  in  the  history 
of  the  poetry  of  the  present  day. 

The  most  patient  and  unprejudiced  reader  will 
cheerfully  admit  that  if,  according  to  Berthold  Auer- 
bach's  prescription,  we  should  discharge  canister  shot 
into  a  million  pianos  to  check  the  wretched  piano  epi- 
demic, we  might  with  full  reason  first  stuff  these  jin- 
gling boxes  with  women's  novels  ;  but  the  objective 
critic  or  historian  of  literature  will  with  equal  readiness 
acknowledge  that  the  epic  works  of  many  German 
women  shine  as  ornaments  in  the  wreath  twined  by 
the  narrative  poetry  of  the  present  day.  The  names 
of  Marie  von  Ebner-Eschenbach,  M.  E.  delle  Grazie, 
Ada  Christen,  Ida  Boy-Ed,  Marie  von  Haustein,  E. 
von  Dincklage,  Wilhelmine  von  Hillern,  Ossip  Schubin, 
E.  Marriot,  Johanna  Niemann,  Louise  von  Francois, 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION. 

B.  von  Suttner,  and  others  cannot  be  mentioned  with 
the  customary  shrug  of  the  shoulders ;  for  what  they 
have  accomplished  in  the  domain  of  epic  fiction  will 
not  be  merely  catalogued,  but  will  have  its  poetic 
merits  duly  set  forth.  Nay,  when  we  judge  impar- 
tially, we  reach  the  conviction  that,  especially  in  Austria, 
women  have  already  contended  for  literary  precedence 
with  men.  Of  the  masculine  leaders  Robert  Hamer- 
ling 1  is  already  dead,  and  a  woman,  Marie  Eugenie 
delle  Grazie,  has  taken  his  place.  Her  magnificent 
epic,  "  Robespierre,"  has  afforded  us  the  consolation 
that  the  place  where  Hamerling  stood  is  not  deserted, 
but  occupied  by  a  sister  of  equal  birthright  in  Apollo, 
whose  name  must  be  mentioned  in  the  history  of 
German  poetry  with  the  foremost.  Marie  Eugdnie 
delle  Grazie  is  at  present  the  greatest  poet  of  Austria, 
and  Marie  von  Ebner  Eschenbach  the  best  novelist. 

I  have  apparently  wandered  somewhat  widely  from 
my  purpose  of  passing  to  the  creative  work  of  a  woman 
of  the  people  whose  poetic  productions  I  am  giving 
to  the  public  in  this  book ;  but  I  cannot  refrain  from 
pointing  out  that,  in  the  present  development  of 
women's  literature,  not  only  these  representatives  of 
the  gentler  sex  who  have  had  the  blessing  of  a  higher 
education  are  entering  the  arena  of  intellect,  but  that, 
even  in  the  lower  ranks  of  the  people,  poetic  voices 

1  Best  known  in  America  by  his  romance  of  Greek  life, 
"  Aspasia."  —  TR. 


INTRODUCTION.  xxix 

are  being  raised  which  it  would  be  a  sin  to  leave  un- 
heard. In  the  first  line  stood  the  poetess  of  nature, 
Katherina  Koch,  of  Ortenburg  in  Lower  Bavaria,  now 
dead.  I  published  several  years  ago  a  portion  of  her 
beautiful,  thoughtful,  and  national  poetry,  and  am  now 
giving  to  the  reading  world  the  whole  literary  legacy  of 
this  woman  of  the  people,  who  for  sixteen  years  per- 
formed the  duties  of  a  maidservant,  and  yet  was  a 
genuine  poetess.  I  will  devote  the  net  profits  to  the 
erection  of  a  simple  monument  in  her  home,  Orten- 
burg in  Lower  Bavaria,  or  use  it  to  found  a  Katharine 
Koch  Institute. 

With  the  present  book,  "  Poems  by  Johanna  Am- 
brosius,"  I  am  permitted  to  introduce  to  literature  a 
woman  who,  born  the  daughter  of  a  poor  artisan,  gave 
her  hand  in  wedlock  to  a  peasant,  and,  in  spite  of 
the  hard  labor  required  in  the  house  and  fields,  can 
always  find  an  hour  to  receive  the  visit  of  the  Muse 
who  has  imprinted  the  kiss  of  consecration  on  her 
brow.  I  now  commit  the  book  anew  to  the  public,  in 
the  joyous  belief  that  others  will  be  as  much  uplifted  by 
this  voice  from  the  people  as  I  was  when  I  examined 
the  poems.  My  task  is  twofold.  First,  I  would  fain, 
as  has  already  been  mentioned,  win  for  the  work  of 
this  poetess  a  little  nook  in  the  history  of  the  poetry 
of  our  own  times,  —  poetesses  of  the  people  and  of 
nature  are  rare ;  secondly,  the  purpose  of  this 
volume  is  to  procure  for  the  invalid,  needy  woman  a 


xxx  INTRODUCTION: 

net  profit  which  will  somewhat  lighten  the  burdens  of 
her  peasant  life  and,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  from  the  suc- 
cess thus  far  obtained,  secure  a  future  competence. 

When,  just  before  the  Christmas  holidays  of  the  year 
1894,  I  published  the  first  edition,  I  was  so  gener- 
ously supported  that,  ere  they  were  over,  I  could  send 
the  poetess  a  considerable  sum.  A  warm  "  May  God 
reward  you  !  "  to  all  who  answered  with  a  subscription 
the  appeal  I  published  in  the  newspapers !  Yet  I 
must  confess  that  I  had  not  hoped  for  so  rapid  a  sale 
of  the  books.  Within  a  few  days  I  had  not  a  single  copy 
at  my  disposal.  Then,  especially  after  the  publication 
of  the  work  was  transferred  to  Konigsberg,  Prussia, 
edition  followed  edition  in  the  most  rapid  succession, 
until  now,  eighteen  months  after  the  appearance  of 
the  first,  the  twenty-sixth  is  called  for.  This  is  cer- 
tainly a  rare  and  unexpected  success ;  probably  scarcely 
ever  before  has  a  poetess  received  so  swift  a  rec- 
ognition and  such  universal  approbation  as  Johanna 
Ambrosius.  She  has  been  unanimously  welcomed  by 
all  the  critics,  and  many  foreign  periodicals  —  English, 
American,  French,  Dutch,  and  Italian  —  have  lauded 
her  in  long  articles.  This  successful  run  caused  a 
discussion  of  the  volume  by  Heinrich  Hart  in  No.  291 
of  the  "Taglichen  Rundschau,"  issued  December  13, 
1894,  from  which  I  am  permitted  to  make  an  extract. 
The  popular  poet  says  :  — 

4<It    is   a   heartfelt   pleasure   to   announce   in   the 


INTRODUCTION.  XXxi 

'  Taglichen  Rundschau,'  the  paper  whose  readers  will 
especially  appreciate  what  causes  me  such  joyful 
emotion,  a  little  volume  which  has  just  appeared  : 
'  Johanna  Ambrosius,  a  German  Poetess  of  the  People.' 
I  began  to  read  the  booklet  somewhat  distrustfully,  for 
I  have  had  many  an  untoward  experience  with  persons 
who  boastfully  assumed  the  title  of  Poet  of  the  People  ; 
but  I  needed  only  to  glance  at  a  few  pages  ere  deep 
sympathy  mastered  me,  and  I  read  the  book  with 
eager  interest  to  the  end.  It  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  evidences  of  the  wealth  of  soul,  intellectual 
yearning,  ideal  aspiration,  which  are  hidden  in  our 
nation,  even  in  the  classes  where  the  blast  expect 
only  psychical  dulness  and  mental  inertia ;  but  also 
a  testimonial  of  the  various  ways  in  which  stunted 
development  threatens  this  aspiration,  because  it  is 
and  must  remain  so  completely  in  obscurity.  The 
young  Italian  poetess,  Ada  Negri,  who,  amid  oppres- 
sive poverty  and  seclusion  from  the  world,  has  devel- 
oped a  marvellous  poetic  talent,  is  already  a  lauded 
personality  in  German  literary  circles ;  but  who  among 
us  has  ever  heard  of  the  German  poetess  Johanna 
Voigt,  born  Ambrosius,  who,  amid  still  more  difficult 
circumstances  than  the  Italian's,  discovered  and  re- 
vealed her  talent  ?  As  an  individual,  Ada  Negri  is 
probably  a  more  marked  character  than  her  German 
sister,  who  lacks  the  vigorous  self-consciousness,  the 
bold  social  views  of  the  Italian ;  but  as  a  poetess  Johanna 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION. 

Ambrosius  need  scarcely  shun  comparison  with  Negri  : 
whatever  advantage  the  latter  has  in  form,  the  German 
possesses  in  genuineness  of  feeling.  Without  any 
external  encouragement,  burdened  by  severe  manual 
daily  labor,  Johanna  Ambrosius  was  obliged  to  make 
herself  what  she  has  become  ;  now,  for  the  first  time, 
she  has  found  in  Karl  Schrattenthal  a  friend  who  has 
compiled  and  published  the  poems  of  the  woman 
bowed  by  toil  and  illness. 

"  But  the  poetess  still  maintains  her  mental  health, 
and  song  after  song  still  flows  forth,  even  now.  Only 
a  small  portion  are  contained  in  the  Schrattenthal 
collection;  but  these  few  will  suffice  to  awaken 
admiration  for  a  woman  who,  thus  burdened,  thus 
secluded  from  the  world,  not  only  so  fully  expanded 
her  heart  and  soul,  but  even  developed  a  rare  delicacy 
of  feeling  for  rhythm  and  expression. 

"Very  infrequently  does  she  regard  poverty  as  some- 
thing unendurable ;  she  always  struggles  on  to  renun- 
ciation and  submission,  and  often  extols  sorrow,  as 
did  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi ;  for  instance,  in  the  pro- 
foundly thoughtful  poem  of  '  Bridegroom  Pain  and 
Sister  Sorrow.' *  Therefore  even  her  own  need  did 
not  harden  her  against  the  poverty  which  oppressed 
the  people  around  her,  but  rather  deepened  her  com- 
passion. Like  those  of  Negri,  many  of  the  poems  of 
Ambrosius  also  have  a  socialistic  sympathy,  but  they 

1  The  poem  in  this  volume  bears  the  title  "  My  Friend."  — TR. 


INTRODUCTION.  xxxiii 

wholly  lack  the  Italian's  revolutionary,  daring  spirit; 
the  German  laments,  but  she  neither  assails  nor 
defies. 

"  Genuine  poesy  also  emanates  from  the  love  poems 
and  songs  of  home,  which  reveal  an  ardent  apprecia- 
tion of  nature,  coupled  with  a  kindly  German  temper- 
ament. It  is  to  be  hoped  that  many  will  purchase  the 
little  work  of  this  '  fettered  yet  inwardly  free  soul.'  " 

I  should  like  to  thank  Herr  Heinrich  Hart  here 
most  heartily,  but  he  would  reject  it  with  the  words, 
"I  have  done  my  duty  as  a  conscientious  critic." 

I  derived  special  pleasure  from  the  numerous  letters 
of  recognition  that  reached  the  authoress  in  the  little 
East-Prussian  village,  and  which  she  permitted  me 
to  read.  They  afford  many  proofs  of  a  favorable 
though  not  professional  criticism,  and  I  will  allow 
myself —  the  authoress  ought  not  to  take  offence  —  to 
publish  a  poetic  greeting  which  is  especially  graceful. 

TO   JOHANNA   VOIGT-AMBROSIUS- 

Far  off  upon  the  barren  moors, 

There  blooms  a  flow'ret  fair  ; 
Its  fragrance  sweet,  like  springtide  glow, 

All  lands  of  earth  may  share. 

Within  the  deepest  forest  shades 

Echoed  a  seraph's  tone, 
And  on  the  angel  wings  of  grief 

To  God  himself  hath  flown. 


XXXI V  INTRODUCTION. 

From  out  of  the  World-Spirit's  cup 

A  shining  drop  swift  sank, 
Which,  lo  !  thy  beauty-thirsting  lips, 

O  German  Sappho,  drank  ! 

In  heartfelt  reverence  and  sincere  admiration, 

A  GERMAN  SISTER  IN  ENGLAND. 


I  will  remark,  by  way  of  introduction,  that  for  the 
purpose  of  procuring  a  tolerably  clear  view  of  the 
character  and  circumstances  of  the  peasant  poetess, 
I  applied  to  all  her  relatives  or  acquaintances  who 
presumably  could  afford  me  many  interesting  par- 
ticulars. I  was  not  disappointed  in  my  expectation  ; 
assistance  was  most  kindly  rendered,  and  I  take  this 
opportunity  of  thanking  them  for  their  willingness  and 
labor.  If  I  do  not  use  the  most  attractive  and  pecu- 
liar contributions  to  the  modest  picture  I  wish  to 
sketch,  —  the  letters  which  the  poetess  wrote  to  me,  — 
the  command  of  discretion  must  plead  my  apology. 

Johanna  Ambrosius  (Frau  Johanna  Voigt,  born 
Ambrosius)  was  born  on  the  3rd  of  August,  1854,  at 
Lengwethen,  a  village  in  the  district  of  Ragnit  in  East 
Prussia,  as  the  second  child  of  a  poor  artisan.  Of 
course  she  was  permitted  to  attend  only  the  little 
village  school,  and  that  merely  until  she  was  eleven 
years  old ;  from  that  time,  for  a  long  period,  she  was 
acquainted  with  nothing  except  hard  work. 

Johanna  remained  at  home   with  her  elder  sister 


INTRODUCTION.  XXXV 

Martha  ;  and  as  her  mother  was  ill  for  years,  the  young 
girls,  scarcely  beyond  childhood,  were  obliged  to 
perform  every  kind  of  labor,  even  the  hardest  and 
most  menial.  So  they  were  forced  to  struggle 
through  that  year  of  destitution,  1867,  in  which  their 
parents  both  succumbed  to  illness. 

The  father  read  a  great  deal,  and  allowed  the  chil- 
dren to  have  the  "  Gartenlaube  ;  "  and  the  young  girls 
with  joyful  hearts  sacrificed  everything  in  order  to  be 
able  to  obtain  food  for  their  minds.  When  they  had 
spun  till  their  fingers  were  bleeding,  and  had  hung  the 
allotted  number  of  skeins  on  the  nail,  they  stretched 
out  their  hands  for  their  beloved  paper. 

At  twenty  Johanna  married  a  peasant.  So  she  lived 
in  a  most  wretched  hut,  and  had  no  companions  except 
among  the  people. 

Two  children  —  Marie,  now  nineteen,  and  Erich, 
sixteen  years  old  —  were  given  to  her  and  increased 
her  cares.  By  means  of  a  small  legacy  the  husband  and 
wife  found  it  possible  to  buy  a  little  house  and  a  piece 
of  land  in  Gross-Wersmeninken.  But  the  young  wife's 
hopes  were  not  realized.  Physical  and  mental  suffer- 
ings assailed  her.  Grief  forced  a  passage,  and  Johanna 
became  a  poetess.  In  the  autumn  of  the  year  1884 
her  first  poem  was  written.  Her  sister  Martha  became 
the  confidante  of  this  secret,  and  sent  Frau  Anny 
Wothe,  the  editor  of  the  periodical  "  Von  Haus  zu 
Haus,"  several  poems  which  were  accepted  and  pub- 


XXXvi  INTRODUCTION. 

lished.  Yet  though  several  other  papers  also  accepted 
the  poetical  productions  of  the  ardent  soul  forced  into 
such  narrow  circumstances,  unfortunately  no  one 
thought  of  rendering  the  poor  woman's  beautiful  gift 
its  just  due  and  making  her  poems  known  in  larger 
circles  ;  and  so  Johanna  remained  obscure.  And  how 
gladly  she  would  have  sent  the  children  of  her  brain 
out  into  the  world,  not  for  the  sake  of  idle  fame,  but 
to  be  able  to  do  something  for  her  beloved  children  ! 

Then  I  made  the  attempt,  and  it  succeeded.  But 
it  was  quite  time ;  for  the  poetess  is  supporting  her 
son  away  from  home,  and  is  ill  and  feeble.  At  New 
Year's  in  1890,  influenza  brought  her  to  a  sick-bed, 
inflammation  of  the  lungs  set  in,  and  when,  without 
medical  aid,  she  was  again  able  to  rise,  she  knew  that 
her  health  was  forever  shattered.  Her  body  is  feeble, 
and  it  is  only  with  pain  and  suffering  that  she  is  able 
to  fulfil  her  duties  as  a  much  harassed  country  woman. 
And  yet  new  poems  are  still  written !  What  a  power- 
ful imagination  must  exert  its  sovereignty  !  Yet  the 
poetess  has  never  seen  mountain,  lake,  or  palace, — 
in  short,  has  never  beheld  any  other  magnificence  than 
the  beauty  of  her  own  home.  But  she  has  gazed  at 
this  little  with  a  poet's  eyes.  I  think  I  may  feel  sure 
every  unprejudiced  reader  will  draw  from  what  is 
offered  that  this  is  a  noteworthy,  and  in  part  a  strongly 
poetic  talent.  But  it  is  particularly  surprising  that, 
under  circumstances  so  unfavorable,  the  woman  could 


INTRODUCTION.  XXXvii 

soar  to  such  an  intellectual  height.  She  herself,  of 
course,  considers  it  all  perfectly  natural  and  simple. 
"Only  I  cannot  write  to  order,"  she  says  naively 
enough,  in  one  of  her  letters ;  "  and  when  I  am 
not  impelled  to  write  poetry,  the  Muse  bites  my 
finger." 

I  myself,  while  reading  the  poems  sent  me,  could 
not  repress  my  surprise  ;  yet  the  poor  woman's  letters 
informed  me  that  before  her  illness  she  regularly 
swung  the  flail  on  the  threshing-floor ;  nay,  I  learned 
at  the  same  time  that,  in  her  husband's  absence,  she 
attended  to  house,  field,  and  stable,  and  three  years 
ago  mowed  the  hay  with  the  scythe  and  bound  the 
sheaves  in  the  harvest  season  !  Now  her  weak  back 
no  longer  permits  such  heavy  labor.  Her  only  leisure 
time  for  writing  is  on  Sunday,  and  when  does  she 
compose  ?  In  the  fields,  in  the  garden,  while  cooking, 
in  the  stable.  And  she  is  aided  by  a  remarkable 
memory.  She  can  repeat  all  her  poems,  perhaps  five 
hundred,  by  heart. 

Her  reading  from  her  thirteenth  to  her  twentieth 
year,  as  has  already  been  mentioned,  was  the  "  Garten- 
laube  "  and  a  few  books  supplied  by  her  sister  Martha  ; 
then  for  twelve  years  she  remained  without  any  mental 
stimulus,  neither  newspapers  nor  books,  Bible  nor 
hymnbook.  During  recent  years  she  first  read  the 
poetry  of  Karl  Stieler  and  Fritz  Reuter. 

When  I  decided    to  publish  a  selection  from  the 


XXXV111  INTRODUCTION. 

poems  of  this  gifted  woman,  it  was  of  course  to  the 
"  Gartenlaube  "  I  applied.  Heir  Ad.  Kroner  was  kind 
enough  to  take  a  poem,  "  Let  her  Sleep."  To  this 
circumstance  I  owed  a  letter  from  a  lady  living  in 
Pillkallen,  East  Prussia,  which  I  will  insert  here 
because  it  makes  us  acquainted  with  the  circum- 
stances of  the  poetess.  It  is  dated  October  9,  1894, 
and  runs  as  follows  :  — 

"  Through  one  of  the  last  numbers  of  the  '  Garten- 
laube '  you  directed  my  attention  to  the  talented 
poetess,  Frau  Ambrosius-Voigt,  and  my  interest  was 
awakened.  As  the  place  of  residence  you  named  is 
only  about  three  miles  from  my  native  city,  I  sought 
her  out,  and  shall  fulfil  her  wishes  if  I  describe  how 
and  where  I  found  her. 

"  Not  far  from  a  larger  church-village,  Lasdehnen,  on 
a  broad,  monotonous  plain,  stretches  a  dark,  solemn 
fir  wood,  now  and  then  varied  by  the  lighter  green  of 
the  deciduous  trees.  Here  is  solitude,  the  stern  soli- 
tude of  the  forest,  of  which  the  poetess  writes  in  her 
verse  and  has  the  power  to  interpret.  Here,  even  in 
our  usually  monotonous  East  Prussia,  a  poetic  spirit 
can  rejoice  and  find  sustenance  for  its  glowing  emotions. 
I  was  letting  my  eyes  wander  rapturously  over  the 
gloomy  tops  of  the  trees,  then  I  suddenly  saw  the  sun 
illumine  the  edge  of  the  woods,  and  a  short  distance 
before  me  appeared  the  modest  little  houses  of  a 


INTRODUCTION.  XXXIX 

village ;  it  must  be  Gross-Wersmeninken.  People 
were  at  work  near  the  road  digging  their  potatoes, 
who  answered  my  questions  whether  this  was  the 
village  I  supposed  it  to  be,  and  where  Frau  Voigt 
lived.  I  was  really  near  the  end  of  my  drive,  and, 
after  a  short  time,  I  turned  into  the  village  street, 
scanning  every  farmhouse  which  might  perhaps  be 
worthy  of  sheltering  the  mind  of  a  poetess. 

"  One  plain  little  house,  almost  exactly  like  its  neigh- 
bor, succeeded  another ;  but  one  was  different,  wholly 
different,  almost  more  modest  than  the  rest,  the  win- 
dows small,  the  roof  low,  the  plain  gray  wooden  walls 
scarcely  visible,  for  they  were  covered  to  the  roof  with 
vines  which  made  the  tiny  windows  seem  still  smaller. 
In  front  of  the  house  was  a  little  garden  where  a  few 
autumn  flowers,  in  spite  of  the  lateness  of  the  season, 
still  maintained  their  blooming  existence.  She  must 
live  here !  Yet,  notwithstanding  this  conviction,  I 
first  stopped  at  the  tavern,  and  learned  from  its  land- 
lady, also  a  Frau  Voigt,  that  I  had  made  no  mistake.  I 
traversed  the  short  distance  on  foot,  and  reached  the 
vine-covered  dwelling.  A  little  watchdog  barked,  and 
a  thin,  sickly,  poorly  clad  woman,  stooping  in  her 
walk,  crossed  the  threshold  to  meet  me.  It  was 
Johanna  Ambrosius-Voigt.  After  learning  my  desire, 
she  ushered  me  into  the  house.  I  passed  through  a 
low  door  into  a  room  more  than  plain ;  it  lacked  every 
ornament  and  every  comfort,  only  it  was  neat,  but 


xl  INTRODUCTION, 

nothing  would  have  suggested  the  asylum  of  a  poet- 
ess. On  the  table,  scoured  till  white,  stood  a  well-filled 
inkstand,  and  beside  it  lay  a  penholder  which  one 
saw  was  fit  for  use  and  was  used.  The  latter  fact 
could  not  fail  to  be  noticed  by  any  one  who  knows 
how  difficult  it  is  to  obtain  available  writing-materials 
among  people  of  her  class  in  our  neighborhood. 

"  Frau  Voigt  herself  was  very  poorly  clad,  as  simply  as 
the  poorest  laborer's  wife  in  our  region.  A  plain  skirt, 
a  jacket,  and  a  dark  kerchief  tied  over  her  head  cer- 
tainly did  not  aid  in  leading  one  to  expect  more  from 
her  than  from  others  similar  in  appearance.  But  I  had 
talked  only  a  few  minutes  with  this  singular  woman, 
and  now  and  then  during  our  conversation  had  seen  her 
eyes  sparkle,  ere  I  knew  in  whose  presence  I  stood. 

"  I  spent  nearly  two  hours  with  her,  and  could  scarcely 
tear  myself  away  from  our  stimulating  conversation. 
When  we  parted  we  shook  hands  as  if  we  had  shared 
joy  and  sorrow  for  years.  She  told  me  many  things 
about  her  misunderstood  existence,  for  the  whole 
circle  of  her  neighborhood  is  ill-suited  to  share  her 
interests  and  tastes.  So  she  stands  alone  and  un- 
comprehended,  with  her  ardent,  sensitive  heart,  and 
moreover  in  poverty  and  need.  She  loves  her  two 
children  tenderly." 

As  I  have  already  mentioned,  I  shall  renounce  the 
best  means  of  presenting  a  correct  picture  of  the 


INTRODUCTION.  xli 

poetess's  character,  —  that  is,  the  publication  of  the 
letters  she  has  written  to  me.  I  do  so  with  a  heavy 
heart,  but  from  well-considered  reasons,  —  with  a  heavy 
heart,  because  these  letters  produce  an  effect  almost 
more  immediate  than  the  poems,  and  because  they  are 
a  little  jewel  casket  of  charming  descriptions  and  origi- 
nal thoughts.  But  I  do  not  wish  to  deprive  my  newly 
won  friend  of  unrestricted  freedom  in  correspondence  ; 
and  this  would  inevitably  occur  if  she  wrote  every  letter 
with  the  disturbing  thought  that  it  might  be  published. 
So  for  the  description  of  her  characteristics  I  will 
confine  myself  to  the  contributions  made  by  her 
relatives  and  friends.  First,  there  is  a  letter  from  her 
beloved  sister  Martha,  which  I  quote  here  because  it, 
too,  proceeds  from  the  pen  of  an  artisan's  daughter, 
who,  like  Johanna,  enjoyed  only  the  instruction  of  the 
village  school.  In  reply  to  my  request  for  a  few  data 
of  her  sister's  life,  she  wrote  September  3rd,  1894, 
among  other  things,  the  following  :  — 

"Yes,  describe  her  nature  !  Now  more  than  ever 
a  simile  would  suit  Johanna  !  Pegasus  dying  in  har- 
ness !  As  a  beautiful  and  clever  child  she  was  be- 
loved by  all  who  knew  her,  an  embodied  sunbeam. 
The  influences  exerted  by  her  education,  warping,  and 
domestic  circumstances  to  make  her  what  she  has 
become,  Johanna  herself  has  perhaps  already  indi- 
cated. It  would  be  going  too  far,  were  I  to  describe 


xlii  INTRODUCTION. 

everything,  —  her  sunny,  care- free  early  childhood,  how 
her  active  mind  was  left  to  itself,  while  her  delicate, 
nay,  fragile  body  was  burdened  with  the  hardest,  most 
menial  tasks  in  the  field  and  stable.  At  that  time 
she  still  looked  with  untroubled,  trusting  eyes  into  the 
world,  which  in  youth  seems  so  beautiful ;  yet  we  both 
felt  how  unlike  we  were  to  our  companions  in  the 
village.  Our  souls  were  beginning  to  retire  into 
themselves.  Sparks  were  commencing  to  flash  from 
Johanna's  little  brain ;  the  longing  for  liberty,  light, 
Life,  resistlessly  forced  a  pathway.  Johanna  had  out- 
grown the  obedience  required  by  her  parents,  but 
crushing  to  body  and  soul ;  she  often  manifested  her 
own  will,  and  half  in  pursuit  of  her  own  inclinations, 
half  yielding  to  the  pressure  of  circumstances,  she 
entered  the  service  of  strangers.  Perhaps  she  hoped 
to  find  in  the  outside  world  what  her  soul  missed. 
Oh,  disappointment !  So  she  returned  home,  and, 
to  gain  liberty  as  she  thought,  gave  her  hand  to  a 
plain  but  kind  and  honest  peasant,  who  had  been 
loyally  and  ardently  attached  to  her  from  childhood. 
Johanna  went  open-eyed  with  the  husband  of  her 
choice  into  poverty  and  the  hardest  toil.  Proudly 
and  uncomplainingly  she  endured  her  self-chosen 
destiny,  until  her  health  failed.  She  had  compre- 
hended the  misery,  the  full  woe  of  a  vainly  struggling, 
terribly  impoverished  life,  and  from  the  darkness  of 
this  limitless  suffering  rose  —  the  poetess.  The  poverty 


INTRODUCTION.  xliii 

and  menial  labor  to  which  my  poor  beloved  sister  has 
been  bound  have  destroyed  her  health.  True,  her  only 
thought  is  for  her  two  children,  to  be  permitted  to  live 
and  work  for  them  !  Work  with  a  body  emaciated 
to  a  mere  skeleton  !  Her  sole  answer  to  every  en- 
treaty for  care  and  caution  is  a  faint  smile." 

I  may  probably  regard  as  an  equally  characteristic 
contribution  to  the  description  of  the  nature  of  the 
poetess  a  selection  of  sentences  from  her  own  letters  : 

Whoever,  like  me,  has  sat  at  the  same  board  with 
want,  and  drunk  from  the  same  cup  with  penury, 
knows  what  life  is. 

In  my  hands  ornament  would  be  irony. 

I  have  my  children,  the  Muse  —  what  care  I  for 
the  world? 

I  withdraw  from  mere  gayety,  but  music  and  sing- 
ing can  fairly  snatch  me  away  from  earth. 

I  am  accustomed  to  judge  my  own  faults  severely, 
yet  always  to  extenuate  those  of  others  with  "  If  and 
But." 

What  is  the  best  thing  for  poor  people?  Sound 
limbs. 

In  my  youth  I  often  wept  from  longing  and  home- 
sickness for  knowledge. 

Wealth    is    a    luxuriant     plant    which    every    one 


xliv  INTRODUCTION. 

admires;    but    no   one   asks    from   what   soil  it  has 
sprung. 

In  Germany  death  is  the  poet's  best  letter  of 
introduction. 

Yes,  I,  too,  wish  I  had  bags  of  money,  —  not  for 
myself;  but  I  would  like  to  give  to  all  who  suffer  want. 

Nothing  is  so  insatiable  as  the  human  heart.  If  it 
has  enough  to  eat  and  drink,  it  longs  for  costly  gear ; 
and  if  it  obtains  that  also,  it  would  fain  have  the  blue 
sky  for  a  table-cloth. 

Woman's  greatest  misfortune  is  —  to  be  obliged  to 
rule. 

A  woman  who  complains  is  despised. 

When  I  write  a  poem,  I  am  so  excited,  so  carried 
away  from  the  world,  that  I  seem  a  stranger  to  myself. 

God  knows  what  is  good ;  He  had  compassion  upon 
my  burden  and  sent  me  the  angel  of  comfort  (the 
Muse). 

How  sorrowful  the  half-blown  roses  look  to-day 
(after  a  hoar-frost)  !  Probably  it  is  the  same  with  a 
late  love. 

Never  flatter  me,  always  speak  the  truth ;  it  is  harsh, 
but  healthful. 

I  will  never  give  up  my  faith  ;  I  may  be  bruised, 
but  not  broken. 


INTRODUCTION.  xlv 

My  method  of  writing  is  as  follows  :  either  I  freely 
pursue  my  own  way  without  stopping  across  hedge  and 
ditch,  or  I  stumble  over  the  first  blade  of  grass.  Most 
of  the  poems  are  written  at  one  dash ;  others,  where  I 
have  to  improve  and  correct,  show  the  traces  of  it. 

To  be  poor  is  hard,  to  be  ill  is  harder ;  and  yet  what 
are  all  physical  sufferings  compared  to  those  which  a 
fettered  soul  endures  ? 

It  costs  a  great  deal  to  be  a  Christian. 
Often  an  hour  is  enough  to  grow  old. 

To  him  who  can  quench  his  thirst  at  the  spring  it  is 
incomprehensible  how  the  poor  man,  who  only  catches 
drops  from  fragments  of  vessels,  can  laud  them  as  a 
cordial. 

The  heart  dictates,  the  mind  does  the  work,  and  the 
soul  sings  the  rhythm. 

My  modest  appeal  to  the  German  nation  had  thus 
far  met  with  unexpectedly  good  success.  In  East 
Prussia,  especially,  people  vied  with  one  another  in 
obtaining,  by  means  of  charitable  performances,  money 
with  which  to  alleviate  the  hard  fate  of  the  gifted 
poetess.  In  Konigsberg  large  sums  were  obtained, 
and  in  Erfurt  the  results  were  equally  favorable.  Con- 
siderable amounts  came  from  individual  benefactors,  to 
whom,  in  the  name  of  the  poetess,  I  express  my  warm- 
est thanks.  My  petition  to  the  Tiedge  Institution  was 


xlvi  INTRODUCTION. 

answered  with  the  grant  of  liberal  assistance,  and  the 
Schiller  Institution  promised  similar  aid.  So  it  is  to 
be  hoped  that  the  sadly  impaired  health  of  the  poetess 
may  be  strengthened,  if  not  fully  restored,  by  the 
money  now  at  her  disposal,  for  she  will  be  able  to  do 
more  for  the  relief  of  her  physical  sufferings. 

It  is  my  duty  to  prove  that,  in  the  numerous  discus- 
sions of  Johanna  Ambrosius's  poems  which  have 
hitherto  appeared,  most  critics  have  laid  too  much 
stress  upon  what  our  poetess  has  read.  Some  of  her 
verse  is  compared  with  Goethe's,  —  she  has  only  now 
become  acquainted  with  the  poems  of  Goethe  and 
Schiller  through  the  kindness  of  a  lady.  Yet  it  is  cer- 
tain that  she  derived  a  thousand-fold  more  profit  from 
her  limited  reading  than  do  many  others  who  devour 
books.  She  writes  thus  in  one  of  her  letters  to  me  : 
"  So  even  one  description  from  the  •'  Gartenlaube '  was 
enough  for  me  to  live  upon  for  months.  If  during  the 
twelve  mute  years  I  had  had  annually  a  single  volume 
of  Lessing,  Goethe,  or  Schiller,  how  rich  I  should  be 
now  !  Yes,  reading  lay  open  before  me,  but  without 
words  or  printer's  ink." 

Many  of  her  poems  within  this  brief  period  have 
been  set  to  music.  Up  to  this  time  the  following 
have  been  made  known  to  me :  "  Invitation,"  "  My 
Love,"  "Not  within  Earth's  Gloomy  Bosom,"  "Oh, 
Love  Thou  too,"  "For  my  Child,"  "Parted,"  "De- 
fence," "  Shut  what  Moves  Thee ; "  "  Fata  Morgana," 


INTRODUCTION.  xlvii 

by  Ed.  Meier  in  Carlsruhe ;  "  At  the  Fireside ; " 
"Open  thy  Heart,"  by  the  leader  of  the  royal  band, 
Wolff,  in  Tilsit ;  "  It  is  Enough  ;  "  "  For  Thee,"  by 
Otto  Steinwender  in  Memel ;  "  A  Summer  Night ;  " 
"For  Thee,"  by  Dr.  Robert  Laser  in  Lasdehnen ; 
"Home,"  for  a  quartette  of  male  voices,  by  Georg 
Schmerberg  in  Berlin;  "My  Native  Land,"  by  Dr. 
Robert  Laser  of  Lasdehnen,  by  Ballet  Director  A. 
Falkenhagen,  by  Frau  Magdalene  Charisius,  and  as 
a  march  by  Herr  Ohnesorg,  Director  of  the  orchestra 
in  Konigsberg,  Prussia;  "The  Sound  of  the  Bells;" 
and  "  What  I  Love,"  by  Ed.  Dubsky  of  Pressburg. 

In  conclusion,  I  cannot  omit  to  insert  here  my  dear 
friend's  poetic  thanks  to  the  Dramatic  Amateur  So- 
ciety of  Konigsberg,  because,  though  only  an  occa- 
sional poem,  its  simple  beauty  is  specially  charming. 

How  soon,  how  soon  I  shall  forgotten  be ! 

How  swiftly  clouds  of  incense  fade  away, 

How  swiftly  withers  fairest  laurel  leaf, 

And  no  one  asks  or  where  or  whence  it  came. 

It  will  be  well.  —  I  shall  go  forth  again 

Unto  my  daily  task,  and  see  the  grain, 

The  blades  of  grass  grow  ever  higher,  higher, 

Shall  listen  to  the  lark's  sweet  matin  song, 

And  shake  from  off  my  skirts  the  glistening  dew. 

Into  the  wood's  green  shades  gaze  thirstily, 

And  peace  and  solitude  drink  in  once  more. 

Toil  here  and  there,  with  hands  long  trained,  as  ever, 

In  house  and  fields,  the  little  garden  visit, 


xlviii  INTRODUCTION. 

Perchance,  from  an  old  habit,  lightly  kiss 

The  tender  leaves  of  the  young  cherry-trees 

I  planted,  lift  the  vine's  luxuriant  arms, 

That  they  may  twine  into  an  arbor  fair 

Shelter  to  give  in  summer's  burning  heat. 

No  sigh  will  e'er  escape  for  vanished  days, 

Those  days  when  high  aloft  was  I  exalted, 

Days  when  the  waves  of  happiness,  high-surging, 

Flung  up  to  my  poor  heart  gold-glitt'ring  spray, 

When  veiled  was  I,  as  though  in  a  bright  halo, 

By  incense  sweet  of  many  a  human  heart. 

'T  is  past,  't  is  past !     On  earth  all  things  soon  vanish. 

And  no  long  time  hath  happiness  to  dwell ; 

Their  chiming  now  the  vesper-bells  have  ceased. 

The  notes  so  eloquent  no  longer  sound  — 

How  soon,  how  soon  I  shall  forgotten  be ! 

But  faithful  memory  will  I  ever  hold 

Of  ye,  all  ye,  who  once  to  me  have  given 

Joy's  brimming  beaker  for  my  lips  to  quaff. 

By  day  and  night  I  '11  hold  ye  in  my  heart, 

And  often  talk  with  ye  while  at  my  work, 

How  dear  to  me  ye  Ve  been,  how  kind,  how  friendly,  — 

Greeting  will  I  send  to  ye  by  my  song, 

Till  comes  the  day  when  heart  and  lips  are  mute ! 

February  22,  1895 

I  am  animated  by  but  a  single  wish,  —  that  an  equally 
auspicious  destiny  may  attend  this  new  edition.  It 
would  be  incomprehensible  to  me  if  a  voice  so  poetic 
as  that  of  our  authoress  should  not  be  heard ;  incom- 
prehensible if  a  great  nation  should  permit  such  a 
poetess  to  perish  in  poverty,  sorrow,  and  anxiety. 


INTRODUCTION.  xlix 

I  express  with  confidence  what  I  have  already  once 
believed  myself  justified  in  saying,  —  namely,  when  I 
published  the  poems  of  Katharina  Koch,  —  Proud  may 
well  be  the  nation  from  whose  lower  classes  such  poetic 
voices  echo. 

KARL  WEISS-SCHRATTENTHAL. 

PRESSBURG,  Kisfaludygasse  22, 
June,  1895. 


NOTE. 

AT  the  close  of  this  volume  is  an  interesting  criticism 
by  Herman  Grimm ;  also  a  graphic  description  is  reprinted, 
from  the  pen  of  an  American  journalist,  of  the  visit  of 
a  messenger  from  the  Empress  of  Germany  conveying 
donations  and  honors  to  the  peasant  poetess. 


PRELUDE. 

Not  by  form  and  rhythm  judge  me, 
Nothing  have  I  learned  of  them,  — 
These  are  wildling  flowers  only, 
Sometimes  decked  with  dew-drop's  gem; 
Blasted  here  and  there  by  tempest, 
As  they  grow  in  moor  and  fields, 
All  are  torn  from  out  my  heart's  nest, 
Like  those  Mother  Nature  yields. 

JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS. 

Gr.  Werstneninken,  near  Lasdehnen 
(East  Prussia),  July  2,  i8g4. 


SONG   AND   SORROW. 


POEMS. 


SONG   AND   SORROW. 


INVITATION. 

TT OW  long  without  wilt  thou  waiting  stand ? 

Come  in,  thou  dear  and  welcome  guest ; 
Too  fiercely  the  winds  sweep  o'er  the  land,  — 

Come,  for  a  brief  hour  with  me  rest. 
In  vain  for  shelter  humbly  pleading, 

From  door  to  door  long  didst  thou  roam  : 
How  thou  hast  suffered  while  help  needing! 

Come,  rest  at  last  within  my  home. 

In  comfort  sit  thou  down  beside  me, 

Lay  thy  dear  head  my  hands  within ; 
Then  will  the  peace  return  full  surely 

Reft  by  this  evil  world  of  sin. 
With  the  soft  whir  of  wings  unfolding, 

From  thy  heart's  depths  sweet  love  will  rise, 
With  magic  touch  thy  grave  lips  moulding, 

Till  their  loved  smile  doth  greet  my  eyes. 


POEMS. 

Come,  rest :  close  my  embrace  will  hold  thee ; 

So  long  as  but  one  pulse  beats  yet, 
Ne'er  will  my  heart  turn  from  thee  coldly, 

Or  even  in  the  grave  forget. 
Thou  look'st  at  me  with  timid  longing ; 

Mute  still,  despite  the  promised  rest ; 
Thy  sole  reply  is  tears  swift  thronging  : 

Come,  weep  thy  fill  upon  my  breast. 


AT  THE  FIRESIDE. 


AT  THE   FIRESIDE. 

T  LOVE  the  dusky  twilight  hour 
•••     When  at  my  fireside  I  sit, 
And  watch  its  jaws  of  flame  outpour, 
Light,  graceful  forms,  which  upward  flit. 

Like  living  flowers  swift  they  rise, 

Where  its  red  heart  most  deeply  glows, 

And  deck,  like  maids  with  laughing  eyes, 
Their  breasts  with  a  golden  rose. 

Their  curls  —  gay,  glitt'ring  serpents  sleek  — 

Mount  writhing,  dart  toward  me, 
And  breathe  upon  my  faded  cheek 

Youth's  vanished  sorcery. 

And  higher  mid  the  radiance,  see, 

Their  arms  they  stretch  into  the  night, 

In  a  wild  dance  of  elfin  glee 

Which  stirs  the  heart  with  keen  delight. 

While  burning  kisses  fervid  glow, 
And  still  the  whirling  dance  goes  on, 

Ere  longing  doth  fulfilment  know  — 

By  their  own  flames  consumed,  they  're  gone. 


POEMS. 


My  head  upon  my  hand  I  rest, 

Gaze  at  the  hearth,  so  dull,  so  dark ; 

Would  that  the  fire  within  my  breast 
Might  die  as  soon  to  its  last  spark  ! 


IT  IS  ENOUGH. 


IT  IS  ENOUGH. 

TT  is  enough  !     Cease  thine  assailing, 

•*•     In  dust  my  limbs  lie  wearily. 

Thou  caltn'st  the  meanest  creature's  wailing  : 

Must  I  alone  forgotten  be  ? 
Wouldst  thou  destroy  me?    Well,  here  stand  I, 

Awaiting  still  thy  sword-blade's  sough  ; 
But  torture  not  with  blows  so  sorely, 

And  stay  thy  hand.     It  is  enough ! 

It  is  enough  !     These  chains  inflaming 

With  hellish  fire  my  aching  heart, — 
All  powerless  are  words  in  naming 

The  boundless  anguish  of  their  smart. 
From  gyves  the  criminal  aye  loose  we, 

When  dragged  to  doom  by  jailers  rough  : 
Wilt  thou  not  cast  one  glance  in  mercy 

My  guilt  upon  ?     It  is  enough ! 

It  is  enough  !     All  earth's  woes  feeling, 

I  've  suffered  till  my  soul  is  sick ; 
Have  fought  till,  bleeding,  bruised  past  healing, 

Wounded  I  lie  unto  the  quick. 
See  through  my  hands  the  tremor  gliding ; 

My  feeble  breath  full  soon  will  cease  : 
Thou  Judge,  o'er  life  and  death  presiding, 

It  is  enough  !     Oh,  grant  me  peace  ! 


POEMS. 


EJACULATORY  PRAYER. 

HTHERE  is  no  grief  on  earth,  however  fell, 
A    Within  whose  heart  no  spark  of  joy  doth  dwell. 
Yet  mine  hath  not  even  that  ray  of  pleasure  ! 
Who  can  it  measure  ? 

To  still  keep  silence  when,  in  fiercest  anguish, 
The  heart  must  unto  death  with  longing  languish  ; 
Against  the  bruised  breast  the  hard  rocks  clasping, 
And  sharp  thorns  grasping  ! 

In  bonds  to  lie,  incapable  of  movement, 
No  spot  to  lay  the  head  for  sleep's  balm  potent, 
No  drop  of  cordial  to  parched  lips  to  proffer, 
Yet  battle  offer  ! 

So  strive  we  onward  to  the  grave's  dark  portal, 
Until  we  speak  our  last  words  with  lips  mortal ; 
Until  the  soul  doth  from  the  body  sever, 
Peace  cometh  never ! 

But  in  the  boundless  space  beyond  earth  glowing 
Lies  the  true  happiness  I  'm  sure  of  knowing  ! 
A  thousand  suns  with  rays  of  joy  are  beaming 
Beyond  my  dreaming  ! 


MY  FKIEND.  9 


MY    FRIEND. 

TV  yTY  verse  to  thee  I  'm  dedicating, 

Mine  own  familiar  friend, 
O  Pain  !  who  shares  my  couch  while  waiting 
For  dawn  with  night  to  blend. 

Before  the  door  of  my  house  standing, 

He  bares  his  shining  blade, 
And  challenges  all :  hence  commanding 

Those  unasked  who  invade. 

To  be  our  guest  he  doth  full  often 

His  sister  Sorrow  press  ; 
Long  does  she  rest  in  house  and  croft  then, 

And  stitches  me  a  dress. 

Of  all  companions  he  's  most  constant ; 

My  wine  to  pour  he  's  fain  ; 
And  a  fresh  cup,  aye  vigilant, 

He  fills  when  one  I  drain. 

Now  envy  ye  not  my  estate 

Who  such  a  friend  hath  found  ? 

Death  only  can  us  separate, 
So  closely  are  we  bound. 


10  POEMS. 


CONFLICT  AND  PEACE. 

OTRIFE  for  a  quarter- century, 
^     With  nor  sword-thrust,  nor  battle-cry, 
Nor  powder-smoke,  nor  victory, 
Nor  St.  John's  Knight  in  the  melee. 
Yet  many  were  the  conflicts  hot, 
Of  which  the  idle  world  recked  naught ; 
How  dire  the  peril  often  grew 
God  only  knew. 

E'en  to  the  depths  of  my  soul  rent, 
With  wounds  in  hands  and  feet  sore  spent, 
Crushed  beneath  many  a  cruel  heel, 
How  sharp  the  pangs  they  made  me  feel ! 
How  I  have  wept  and  moaned  and  sighed, 
While  my  foe's  cruel  taunts  replied  ; 
How  to  the  mark  each  keen  shaft  flew, 
God  only  knew. 

Evening  draws  near,  a  cool  breeze  blows, 
The  stress  of  battle  feebler  grows ; 
Sometimes  the  lips  which  pain  has  blanched, 
Utter  a  sigh  —  the  blood  is  stanched  — 
Past  is  the  anguish  of  the  fray, 
A  star  shines  with  a  gentle  ray, 
Peace  comes  —  the  path  of  trial  trod  — 
Bestowed  by  God. 


THE  POET.  II 


THE  POET. 

"11 7HAT  needs  the  poet  for  his  singing  ? 
*  *       What  knowledge  must  he  call  his  own  ? 
Comfort  to  thousand  hearts  he 's  bringing : 
He  surely  has  a  magic  stone. 

Yet  little  is  required  for  fitting 

The  poet  to  perform  his  task,  • 
The  while  in  spirit  he  is  flitting 

In  sunbright  upland  meads  to  bask. 

When,  daily  labor  terminating, 
Sleep  doth  thee  to  its  arms  entice, 

He  groans  in  fierce  throes  of  creating, 
And  strives  for  the  lost  Paradise. 

His  breast  is  filled  with  eager  yearning, 
Nor  peace  nor  rest  doth  he  e'er  find ; 

With  all  men's  tears  his  eyes  are  burning, 
He  bears  the  burdens  of  mankind. 

Deep  into  beauty's  fountain  diving, 
He  seeks  the  noblest  treasure  there ; 

In  heartfelt  prayers  forever  striving 
With  God  to  grant  ye  fiovv'rets  fair. 


1 2  POEMS. 

Not  for  himself  he  asketh  blessing ; 

Content  is  he  if,  in  his  song, 
He  bringeth  aught  for  your  refreshing  : 

For  gold  or  thanks  he  doth  not  long. 

With  his  heart's  blood  he  dyes  the  roses, 
His  hot  tears  blanch  the  lilies  pale  ; 

The  smallest  leaf  which  here  reposes 
Doth  from  his  heavy  sighs  exhale. 

The  gray  hairs  in  his  locks  unheeding, 
He  cares  not  for  his  own  deep  grief; 

The  cordial  other  hearts  are  needing, 
To  bring,  his  genius  deemeth  chief. 

Therefore  his  songs  in  your  hearts  treasure 
As  fondly  as  your  child  you  hold ; 

None  know  what  anguish  beyond  measure 
Each  birth  has  cost,  what  grief  untold ! 


MY  MUSE.  13 


MY  MUSE. 

I  lived  from  day  to  day, 
Nor  joy  nor  sorrow  felt ; 
Scarcely  knew  myself,  so  like 
Were  all  with  whom  I  dwelt. 

But  as  this  I  realized, 

And  'gan  o'er  it  to  fret, 
Yawned  my  heart  as  if  weary  : 

Something  may  happen  yet. 

Some  one  tapped  lightly.     "  Enter, 

I  called,  almost  dismayed. 
"  What !  Is  it  you,  my  old  friend, 

Pain  ?     Hast  thou  hither  strayed  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  child,"  softly  stroking 
My  cheeks  the  while  he  spake  : 

"  Tell  me,  for  whom  with  longing 
So  great  doth  thy  heart  ache  ?  " 

"  For  my  Muse,  who  once  taught  me 

To  sing  full  many  a  song. 
Without  a  single  visit 

For  months  I  Ve  waited  long. 


14  POEMS. 

"  Now  sit  thee  down  beside  me ; 

Else  shall  I  be  alone. 
We  two  have  talked  together 

Oft  while  the  pale  moon  shone." 

So  sat  he  down  beside  me, 
Kissing  me  o'er  and  o'er ; 

E'en  as  the  first  he  gave  me, 
I  found  my  songs  once  more  : 

"  Let  the  Muse  farther  wander, 

If  only  thee  I  have !  " 
A  smile  of  secret  meaning 

Rests  on  his  lips  so  grave. 

"  Take  back  that  sentence  hasty, 
For,  lo  !  your  Muse  am  I ; 

Always  have  I  been  faithful." 
I  kissed  him  tenderly. 


DOST  THOU  ASK?  15 


DOST  THOU  ASK  ? 

A  SKEST  thou  why  in  mine  eyes 
**•  The  tears  so  thickly  spring? 
Wherefore  I  do  wail  and  sigh ; 

What  grief  my  heart  doth  wring? 
Ah  !  if  within  the  presence 

Of  my  woe  thou  couldst  stand, 
Thou  wouldst  pity  me ;  but,  ah  ! 

Thou  dost  not  understand  ! 

Whate'er  these  lips,  so  pallid, 

May  breathe  in  sorrow  deep, 
They  ne'er  can  voice  the  anguish 

Which  doth  my  whole  heart  steep. 
If  it  could  only  tell  thee 

How,  'neath  Fate's  iron  hand, 
T  is  breaking,  thou  wouldst  pity  : 

Thou  canst  not  understand ! 

No  recent  sorrow  is  it, 

No  common  daily  smart, 
When  thus  by  vulture  talons 

Torn  fiercely  is  my  heart. 
Whoe'er  is,  while  still  living, 

Quartered  by  headsman's  hand, 
These  hellish  tortures  knoweth, 

Thou  canst  not  understand  ! 


1 6  POEMS. 

Easy  it  is  to  censure, 

When  we  the  guilt  know  not,  — 
Or  fan  to  fiercer  blazing 

A  fire  already  hot. 
Who  ne'er  at  night  hath  wandered 

In  darkness  through  the  land, 
Can  never  comprehend  me  : 

Thou  dost  not  understand ! 

Then  leave  me  to  my  weeping 

O'er  all  that  stirs  me  so  ; 
Full  soon  the  night  eternal 

Brings  rest  to  us  below. 
Some  day,  to  all  His  children, 

God  will  their  fate  allot : 
He  only  can  condemn  them  ; 

But  thou  —  thou  mayest  not ! 


MY  SONG. 


MY  SONG. 

TV/TV  song  I  will  not  sell  for  gold ; 
*~         Nor  fame  nor  honor  '11  buy  it ; 
I  sing  it  for  myself  alone, 

Or  praise  ye  or  decry  it. 
No  master  e'er  hath  taught  the  art, 

Nor  have  I  learned  one  feature ; 
The  music  came  direct  from  God, 

The  words  were  writ  by  Nature. 

Full  oft  the  breeze  of  morning  bears 

A  page  from  distant  regions ; 
I  marvel  when  I  note  the  things 

Which  men  must  learn  in  legions. 
If  rhyme  be  faulty,  all  condemn ; 

And  if  't  is  not  quite  flawless, 
One  poet's  work  another  blames 

With  judgment  far  too  lawless. 

A  foot 's  here  missing,  there  a  rhyme  ; 

Then  undue  flourish  grieves  them. 
Full  eagerly  they  strive  and  toil 

Until  the  turf  receives  them. 
My  song  of  solitude  I  sing, 

With  all  its  many  errors  ; 
'T  is  for  myself  and  for  my  God  : 

The  critic  hath  no  terrors. 


1 8  POEMS. 

Therefore,  kind  friends,  strive  not  to  teach 

Me  learning's  strict  rules  narrow ; 
The  nightingale's  notes  do  not  ask 

From  throat  of  northern  sparrow. 
Yet  thanks  I  give  for  fame  and  praise, 

With  all  their  fleeting  glitter ; 
From  practice  as  a  cook,  I  know 

The  laurel's  leaf  is  bitter. 


MY  LOVE.  19 


MY  LOVE. 

A  S  from  the  bush  a  rose  we  break, 
•*"*•    Thou  'rt  gone  to  thy  repose ; 
Thine  eyes  did  my  whole  life-light  make, 
My  hands  their  lids  must  close. 

They  loudly  grieved,  watched  thy  last  sleep, 

To  thee  with  kisses  clung ; 
Naught  did  I,  but,  in  darkness  deep, 

My  hands  in  anguish  wrung. 

They  brought  thee  flowers  to  enwreath 

Thy  form  with  garlands  fair ; 
I  laid  my  heart  thy  feet  beneath, 

Within  the  tomb's  chill  air. 

They  planted  a  green  willow-tree 

To  beautify  thy  grave  ; 
But  I  its  branches  with  a  sea 

Of  hot  tears  watered  have. 

Then  placed  they  there  a  tombstone  fine, 

With  date  of  year  and  name  ; 
Unseen  in  my  heart's  depths  doth  shine 

One  marked  with  words  of  flame. 


2O  POEMS. 


They  wander  oft  thy  grave  unto ; 

I  sit  and  weep  alone. 
How  fervent  was  my  love,  and  true, 

Only  to  God  is  known ! 


FOR    THEE.  21 


FOR  THEE. 

GO  dearly  I  love  thee,  beyond  belief. 
^     Yet  ne'er  must  thou  know  the  secret. 
Fain  would  I  once,  drawing  near  like  a  thief, 
A  kiss  from  thy  hands  in  thy  sleep  get. 

Fain  would  I  once  from  the  spirit-world  flit, 
The  tale  of  my  love  thee  telling ; 

With  eyes  untroubled  I  'd  then  submit 
To  tortures  my  death-doom  knelling. 

But  when  no  longer  on  earth  thou  hast  place, 
And  none  here  do  still  bewail  thee, 

Full  loudly  I  '11  shriek  to  the  worlds  of  space  ! 
My  love  to  express,  words  would  fail  me. 


PICTURES     OF     LIFE 

FROM  NATURE,  FROM  HOME. 


PICTURES    OF     LIFE 

FROM    NATURE,    FROM    HOME. 


THE  BLIND   WOMAN   AND  THE   DEAF 
MUTE. 

'T^HE  townfolk  hold  their  yearly  fair  to-day, 
•*•      The  bright  sun  laughs  from  sky  without  a  cloud, 
And  long  did  I  beside  the  fountain  stay 

Watching  the  movements  of  the  noisy  crowd. 
Whips  loudly  crack,  men  shout  in  hoarse,  deep  tones ; 

The  rich  upon  their  velvet  cushions  lean, 
And  one  of  the  bleak  Pussta's  ragged  sons 

With  spurs  struck  in  his  horse's  flanks  is  seen. 
Here  the  gay  laugh  of  happy  childhood  rings, 

There  angry  tears  and  curses  fierce  upbraid ; 
Here  a  glad  greeting  from  friends  new-met  springs, 

There  for  the  lost  a  hasty  search  is  made. 
A  voice  amid  the  tumult  reached  my  ear 

From  'neath  the  ancient  linden's  branches  low, 
Above  the  medley  often  ringing  clear : 

"  Oh,  pity  take  upon  the  blind  one's  woe  ! 


26  POEMS. 

My  greatest  treasure  I  have  wholly  lost, 

The  fairest  gift  which  we  in  life  obtain,  — 
Oh,  do  not  coldly  pass  me  at  my  post, 

Let  me  not  plead  to  ye  to-day  in  vain. 
The  blessed  light  of  Heav'n  I  cannot  see, 

Into  my  child's  eyes  can  I  never  gaze  ; 
And,  until  death  doth  set  my  spirit  free, 

Eternal  darkness  must  shroud  all  my  days  !  " 
From  people  simple  both  in  heart  and  mind, 

Falls  coin  on  coin,  soft  as  compassion's  balm  ; 
From  such  alone  her  prayers  an  answer  find. 

Rejoiced  was  I  to  see  her  store  increase. 
But  near  a  man  with  angry  glance  did  stand, 

He  would  have  wished  this  woman's  luck  to  cease ; 
Full  rarely  alms  was  flung  into  his  hand, 

Yet  still  his  large  eyes  asked  as  plain  as  words, 
The  while  he  ever  rang  his  little  bell, 

"  Why  do  ye  all  add  to  this  woman's  hoards  ? 
Do  ye  deem  my  infirmity  less  fell  ? 

Am  I  not  robbed  of  the  sweet  gift  of  speech  ? 
Are  not  my  ears  from  sound  forever  sealed? 

Why  should  this  woman's  woes  alone  by  each 
Be  pitied  ?     That  the  world  's  from  sight  concealed  ? 

To  all  the  earth  her  sufferings  she  can  shriek, 
While  I  must  shut  mine  in  my  inmost  heart ; 

From  the  alms  begged  to-day  she  '11  comfort  seek, 
And  with  them  can  relieve  her  sorrow's  smart." 

Thus  thinks  the  poor  wretch,  and  at  once  he  slips 
His  meagre  gains  upon  the  scales  of  woe,  — 

The  balance  toward  the  woman  slightly  dips ; 


THE  BLIND  WOMAN  AND  DEAF  MUTE.       2/ 

Whoe'er  hath  larger  wealth,  content  must  know. 

E'en  as  wan  Envy's  talons  interlace 
And  firmer  hold  strive  on  his  heart  to  lay, 

His  little  daughter  looks  into  his  face  ; 
A  loving  greeting  her  sweet  eyes  convey. 

Then  suddenly  upon  his  soul  dawns  clear 
The  revelation  of  his  better  hap ; 

And  swiftly  to  the  woman  drawing  near, 
He  lets  a  penny  fall  into  her  lap. 

Lifting  his  child,  again  and  yet  again 
He  clasps  her,  the  while  gazing  o'er  and  o'er. 

He  still  can  see  /    What  joy  amid  his  pain  ! 
As  down  his  cheeks  the  hot  tears  burning  pour, 

He  firmly  moves  —  not  once  irresolute  — 
On  past  the  linden  with  its  branches  low, 

His  glance  still  pleading,  though  his  lips  are  mute : 
" Oh,  pity  take  upon  the  blind  one's  woe!  " 


28  POEMS, 


LET   HER  SLEEP! 

T 17  HERE  the  golden  corn  is  rustling  and  the 
forest's  shadow  ceases, 

Where  bright  children  of  the  summer  barter  kisses 
with  the  breezes, 

Where  the  chaste  eyes  of  the  timid  roe  are  through 
the  leafage  gazing,  — 

By  the  roadside  sleeps  a  little  girl  in  the  fierce  noon- 
tide's blazing. 

Her  golden  curls  are  glittering  like  the  sunbeams  on 
them  streaming, 

Her  shoulders  bare  through  many  a  rent  in  ragged 
gown  are  gleaming ; 

With  tender  touch  the  grass-blades  green  her  sun- 
burned wee  feet  cover, 

Gay  butterflies,  like  brilliant  gems,  above  them  flit 
and  hover. 

Save  the  bees'  hum,  sound  there  is  none ;  but  the  elfin 

whispers  wooing, 
From  the  green  dusk  of  the  dense  woods  comes  the 

hidden  dove's  faint  cooing ; 


LET  HER  SLEEP!  29 

Their  silken  locks  from  off  their  brows  the  ears  of 

corn  are  sweeping, 
All  things  breathe  the  happiness  and  peace :  the  child 

smiles  e'en  while  sleeping. 

Her  dreams  are  like  the  quiet  scene  by  fair  Nature's 

hand  created, 
By  no    foe    as   yet    'tis    menaced,   by  no   tempest 

devastated ; 
Happy  is  she  as  the  flowers  which  no  thought  take  for 

the  morrow, 
Soaring  upward  on  light  bird-wings,  all  untouched  by 

care  or  sorrow. 

Playmates  of  the  radiant  angels  sees  she  in  each  child 

of  mortal, 
From  the  palace  to  the  hovel  to  one  family  belong 

all. 
Days  of  childhood,  with  thy  dreams  lead  all  the  little 

lambkins  tender, 
Whether  clad  in  rags  or  silk,  in  the  same  fairy  mead  to 

wander. 

Long    before   the    little   maid    I   stood   and    deeply 

meditated, 
Gazing   at   the   lovely   vision   till  my  soul   was   fully 

sated  • 
With  gesture  stern  a  boy  waved  back,  the  noisy  lad's 

plan  thwarting. 
For  his  own  sport  to  see  the  child  at  his  touch  from 

slumber  starting. 


30  POEMS. 

Gayly  singing,  roved  he  onward,  while  with  footsteps 

light  I  glided 
'Neath    the    pines,    amid    whose    branches     solemn 

murmurs  ne'er  subsided. 
Grant  to  youth  its  peaceful   slumber,  leave  the   fair 

child  to  her  dreaming, 
Nor  think  Life's  hand  will  fail  to  do  its  duty  —  save 

in  seeming. 


THE   OLD  MAID.  31 


THE   OLD   MAID. 

COME  laugh  as  she  goes  by  —  and  some  deride  — 
^     From  her  night-watch  the  couch  of  pain  beside  ; 
All  whom  she  sees,  for  moments  howe'er  fleeting, 
Sneer,    "  Sleet    spoiled     her    luck-harvest "    at     the 
meeting. 

Once  thou  wert  young  ;  a  slender  little  bird 
Carolling  forth  each  joy  thy  young  heart  stirred ; 
Thy  Spring-tide  cheer  hath  poverty  swift  taken,  — 
'T  was  done  ere  thou  didst  to  thy  loss  awaken. 

Fair  Summer  came,  and  to  thee  found  her  way ; 
But  all  too  soon  snapped  Pleasure's  slender  stay. 
How  deep  soe'er  thy  heart  with  grief  was  flooded, 
It  bled  in  silence,  and  complaint  eluded. 

And  now  before  thy  door  stern  Autumn  stands, 
Thinning  thy  scanty  locks  with  ruthless  hands, 
Yielding  thee  up  to  the  sharp  fangs  of  sorrow, 
While  thou  dost  anxious  wait  for  Winter's  morrow. 

The  light  of  former  days  thy  glance  doth  lack ; 
No  longer  look'st  thou  forward,  scarce  e'en  back  ; 
Only  when  suff  ring  is  for  aid  appealing, 
Thy  noble  heart  impels  thee  to  bring  healing. 


$2  POEMS. 

Thy  ready  hand  to  help  is  ever  strong, — 
No  day  for  thee  too  hot,  no  road  too  long ; 
Though  for  reward  but  hate  thou  wast  receiving. 
Loyal  to  deeds  of  charity  still  cleaving. 

Then  go  thy  way,  O  woman  much  disdained, 
With  beauteous  soul  in  body  worn  contained  ! 
From  mock'ry  undeserved  and  bitter  scorning 
Will  bloom  a  myrtle  wreath  for  thy  adorning. 


A  MAY  NIGHT.  33 


A  MAY   NIGHT. 

moon    is   rising !     With    one    more    breath 
gasping, 

To  rest  doth  lay  him  down  the  weary  wind ; 
The  flowerets,  their  hands  devoutly  clasping, 
Their  eyes  close  slowly,  sweet  repose  to  find. 
An  atmosphere  of  peace  the  wood  and  wold  sways, 
Millions  of  pearls  the  lake's  bright  waters  strew ; 
Along  the  forest's  green  and  moss-grown  pathways 
With  flying  feet  hastens  the  timid  roe. 

A  silver  rain  drips  from  the  smallest  wavelet 
Whereon  the  water-lily's  head  doth  lean ; 
By  longings  urged,  which  no  fulfilment  have  yet, 
The  nixie  rises  through  the  cool  tide's  sheen. 
From  hedge  and  willow  a  sweet  song  entrances, 
The  nightingale's  love-notes  float  through  the  air,  — 
The  nixie  hears,  and  to  its  music  dances, 
Twining  the  fairest  roses  in  her  hair. 

What  whispers  low,  what  secret  mystic  signals, 
Faint,  bell-like  chimes  echo  from  star  to  star  ! 
Meseems  that  Heaven  has  flung  wide  its  portals, 
And  anjrel  voices  reach  me  from  afar. 


34  POEMS. 

Stirred  by  her  calm  and  quiet  breathing  only, 

Our  kindly  mother  Nature's  breast  appears ; 

And  from  Day's  burning  cheeks,  prostrate  and  weary, 

Is  kissed  away  the  last  trace  of  her  tears. 

And  thou,  my  heart !  ah,  cease  thy  troubled  weeping, 
As  if  thy  future  held  but  storm  and  noontide-blaze  ; 
See'st  thou  not  love's  eternal  banner  sweeping 
Its  outstretched  folds  o'er  the  sun-chariot's  rays  ? 
So,  too,  for  thee  the  fields  now  scorched  by  sorrow 
One  day  will  lie  beneath  the  moon's  mild  sheen, 
E'en  as,  within  the  crystal  waters'  still  flow, 
The  image  of  eternal  peace  is  seen. 


THE  FAIREST  SPRING.  35 


THE   FAIREST   SPRING. 

T  N  winter's  cold  I  sat  my  window  near,  — 

A     Broad  fields,  snow-whitened,  lay  in  stillness  drear ; 

A  row  of  icicles  hung  from  the  roof; 

A  rest  old  Grand'ther  North  had  ta'en,  the  proof. 

In  silence  deep  rny  woods  beloved  stood, 

No  bird-notes  sweet  trilled  in  melodious  flood  ; 

The  white  flakes  drift  where  dark  the  gray  sky  low'rs, 

Spectral  and  soft  as  fragrance  of  dead  flow'rs. 

An  angry  glance  toward  my  garden  strayed,  — 

Dead,    dead,    all    dead !      Sad    thoughts    my    spirit 

swayed. 

Ah,  why  is  Summer's  joy  so  quickly  past? 
Why  do  the  roses  sweet  no  longer  last? 
Why  must  such  radiance  of  bloom  be  all 
Enshrouded  'neath  pale  wreath  and  fun'ral  pall? 
I  will  admit  my  heart  with  rancor  swelled ; 
I  closed  my  lids,  beneath  which  tear-drops  welled  :  — 
But,  hark  !  what  voices  rise  so  clear  and  strong, 
Ringing  like  bells  the  frozen  street  along? 
A  merry  giggle,  and  the  glad  refrain 
Of  laughter.     Raise  the  window  I  would  fain. 
Two  children  these,  of  fifteen,  sixteen  years  ; 
With  long,  thick  locks,  and  eyes  undimmed  by  tears. 


36  POEMS. 

The  tall  brunette  —  dear  little  daughter  mine, 

Slender  and  lithe  as  her  own  native  pine  — 

Her  arm  close  round  her  little  friend  has  drawn, 

Who  glances  round  her  like  a  sportive  fawn. 

No  sooner  have  they  seen  me  than  both  come, 

Like  snowflakes  blown  into  my  little  room. 

Dream  I  ?     Can  it  be  real  ?     This  spring-tide  scent, 

Perfume  of  violets  and  jasmine  blent  ? 

Whence  flew  so  many  thousand  birdlings  bright, 

So  gayly  twittering  to  greet  the  light  ? 

Does  not  the  stream  flow  through  the  meadows  green, 

While  butterflies  flit  o'er  of  varied  sheen  ? 

And  yonder  do  not  —  scarlet  treasure  sweet  — 

Strawberries  mid  the  flowery  grass  us  greet  ? 

Ah,  no  ;  not  something  here  ye  both  do  bring,  — 

Ye  are  the  whole  incarnate  radiant  Spring ! 

Like  rosebush  with  a  wealth  of  buds  ye  stand, 

Or  the  green  crops,  a  promise  to  the  land  ! 

From  the  clear  light  of  joy  within  your  eyes 

Unconscious  beams  the  glory  of  May  skies  ! 

Abashed  and  penitent  I  recognize  : 

Ye  are  the  fairest  Spring  God  can  devise. 


MY  WORLD.  37 


MY   WORLD. 

A    WARM  thatched  roof,  'neath  which  peer  windows 
**         small ; 

A  lush  green  vine,  thick  clust'ring  o'er  the  wall  ; 
And  level,  flower-gemmed,  low-lying  meads  ; 
A  narrow  path  which  to  the  cornfields  leads  5 
The  little  plain  encircled  by  pine  woods, 
Where  it  is  bliss  to  rest  in  dreamy  moods ; 
Blithe  birds  that  cheer  the  heart  with  roundelay  ; 
The  peaceful  graveyard  a  few  steps  away ; 
A  glimpse  of  the  blue  sky,  like  azure  shrine,  — 
How  small,  how  poor  doth  seem  this  world  of  mine  ! 

Yet  as,  when  vesper  bells  their  summons  peal, 
Returning  home  I  weary,  hungry,  feel ; 
See  from  my  hut  the  smoke's  light  column  rise, 
While  in  the  glowing  west  day,  flaming,  dies ; 
My  child  springs  toward  me  with  exulting  shout, 
And  from  the  hearth  a  cheerful  blaze  gleams  out  ; 
When  everything  breathes  evening's  sweet  repose, 
And  with  hand  on  the  bolt  my  door  I  close  ; 
When  in  the  heav'ns  star  after  star  doth  shine,  — 
How  grand,  how  glorious  is  this  world  of  mine  ! 


38  POEMS. 

I  envy  not  the  rich  man's  splendor  rare, 

His  marble  tables,  golden  goblets  fair. 

Chimes  of  sweet  bells,  the  stately  steeple's  pride, 

Or  the  cool  flow  of  ocean's  wondrous  tide  ; 

I  know  that  happiness  lies  everywhere, 

Perchance  most  willingly  the  cot  doth  share  ; 

The  blossom's  fragrance  is  borne  on  the  wind ; 

In  narrow  confines  sweetest  fruits  we  find. 

Well  for  me  if  my  home  doth  God  enshrine, 

For  naught  then  would  I  change  this  world  of  mine ! 


THE  LITTLE    GOLD  RING.  39 


THE   LITTLE  GOLD   RING. 

VI  7"HY  lurest  thou  with  golden  glitter, 
*         O  little  ring,  the  maiden's  eye  ? 
Who  pledges  troth  to  thee,  with  bitter 
Anguish  and  grief  must  freedom  buy. 

With  blissful  pain  the  fair  girl  presses 
Thee  to  her  lips,  unfeeling  thing  ! 

To  hearts  betrayed,  when  shame  distresses, 
Last  anchor,  hope,  to  which  they  cling  ! 

The  bond  of  every  true  love  sealing, 
When  soul  to  soul  doth  find  its  way  ; 

Many  thy  hoop  a  bolt  are  feeling, 

Which  bars  them  from  their  heaven  for  aye. 


4O  POEMS. 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT. 

TTER  soft,  cool  arms  extending, 

Night  comes  anew ; 
Fields,  woods,  and  meadows  clasping 
Her  heart  unto ; 

With  mantle  light  enwrapping 

Each  tree  and  bush, 
While  murmuring  tones  the  world 

To  dreams  doth  hush. 

The  earth  hath  now  forgotten 

Day's  misery ; 
Mine  eyes  I  lift  in  longing 

Toward  the  sky. 

I  see  a  wee  bird  soaring 

In  sunset's  glow : 
Ah,  would  my  heart,  so  weary, 

With  it  might  go  I 


HOME.  41 


HOME. 

"IV /[Y  native  land  I  will  not  leave, 
AT  A     Whatever  may  be  told  ; 
Above  all  other  countries  it 

Doth  shine  like  purest  gold. 
Let  Fortune  smile  in  other  realms, 

In  richer  pomp  of  hue, 
Nowhere  save  in  my  native  land 

Laughs  sun  from  skies  as  blue. 

My  native  land  I  will  not  leave  ; 

My  parents'  home  is  here, 
A  quiet  sanctuary  which 

I  draw  in  rev'rence  near. 
Each  foot  of  soil  is  hallowed  ground. 

More  sacred  naught  can  be  ; 
E'en  with  no  priestly  ritual, 

The  tears  spring  to  mine  e'e. 

My  native  land  I  will  not  leave, 
No  matter  what  may  come, 

Although  all  suddenly  should  dawn 
The  final  day  of  doom. 


42  POEMS. 

I  know  that  then  the  world  will  pass 
Away  in  smoke  and  dust ; 

But  my  loved  Germany  will  shine 
A  star  in  Heav'n,  I  trust. 


MY  NATIVE  LAND.  43 


MY  NATIVE   LAND. 

A  LL  tell  me  that  thou  art  not  fair, 
"^^     Beloved  native  land  ! 
No  crown  of  mountain  heights  dost  wear, 

No  robe  of  vines'  green  band  ; 
No  eagle  in  thy  sky  appears, 

No  palm-tree  greets  the  eye  ; 
But  the  primeval  world's  bright  tears1 

Along  thy  coast-lines  lie. 

No  metals  dost  thou  give  the  king, 

Diamonds  nor  purple  robe  ; 
The  truest  hearts  thy  offering 

That  beat  in  all  earth's  globe. 
For  battle  thou  dost  bring  the  steed 

Worth  tons  of  shining  gold, 
Strong  men  to  curb  the  charger's  speed 

And  the  keen  sword  to  hold. 

And  when  I  walk  in  dreamy  hour 
Through  sombre  fir-woods  wide, 

And  see  the  mighty  oak-trees  tow'r 
Aloft  in  royal  pride  ; 

1  Amber. 


44  POEMS. 

When,  echoing  from  Memel's  strand, 
Floats  song  of  nightingale, 

And  o'er  the  distant  dune's  white  sand 
The  snowy  gull  doth  sail,  — 

Such  blissful  raptures  o'er  me  throng 

No  language  can  convey  ; 
I  pour  my  joy  forth  in  a  song 

Attuned  to  music  gay. 
E'en  though  thy  robe  is  simple,  and 

No  mountains  crown  thy  brow, 
Long  live  East  Prussia  !     Native  land, 

How  wondrous  fair  art  thou  ! 


"VILLAGE  BY  THE  SPRING." 

"PROM  hills  so  gently  sloping, 

Thy  clear  eyes  widely  oping, 
Thou  front'st  the  world,  O  village  mine  ! 
No  walls  for  thy  adornment, 
Naught  save  the  German  peasant, 
In  straw-thatched  hut  of  rude  design. 

Where  the  bright  spring  clear  gushes, 

And  to  the  valley  rushes 

Through  meadows  green,  with  course  so  fleet; 

The  azure  flowers  sprinkling, 

Like  eyes  of  maidens  twinkling, 

Each  thirsty  wanderer  to  greet. 

While  round  ye  close  advances, 

Like  hundred  thousand  lances, 

The  dark  pine-forest's  sombre  edge, 

Within  whose  depths  soft  cooing 

Is  heard  of  wild  doves  wooing, 

And  happy  dreams  are  each  one's  privilege. 


46  POEMS. 

Fair  art  thou  when,  while  meadow 

And  pastures  still  the  dews  show, 

Thou  'rt  roused  by  larks'  sweet  matin  lays ; 

When  through  the  forest  branches 

The  sun  his  bright  rays  launches 

With  flashing  eyes  into  thy  face  to  gaze. 

When  quiet  eve  comes  stealing, 
Sunset's  last  glow  concealing, 
Like  thank-offerings  skyward  cleaves 
The  smoke  from  chimneys  streaming, 
While,  like  the  bright  stars  beaming, 
Light  after  light  shines  through  the  leaves. 

Still  and  secluded  lying, 

When  from  faithful  labor  hieing 

Thy  wearied  ones  sweet  slumber  seek  ; 

No  mill-wheel's  noisy  whirring, 

Thee  from  thy  slumber  stirring, 

Is  heard ;  no  engine's  piercing  shriek. 

Fair  art  thou  always,  whether 

Dewdrops  or  snowflakes  gather, 

Or  in  the  golden  harvest's  state. 

Ah  !  peerless  is  thy  beauty 

When  'neath  the  glowing  Spring  sky, 

Mid  thousand  blossoms,  thou  dost  wait. 

Then  on  thy  breezes  blowing 

Comes  sweet  scent  of  flowers  growing  ; 

'Neath  snows  of  bloom  thy  houses  stand, 


11  VILLAGE  BY  THE  SPRING."  47 

While  over  the  cool  highway, 
And  every  narrow  byway, 
Lies  richest  carpet  in  the  land. 

From  their  rooms  swiftly  slipping, 
The  girls  and  boys  are  skipping, 
With  merry  dance  they  Spring  salute  ; 
From  the  woods  ring  cuckoo's  notes, 
From  the  neighboring  hillside  floats 
The  music  of  the  shepherd's  flute. 

When  on  Sunday  softly  stealing, 

Sweet  tones  of  bells  appealing, 

From  distant  steeple  call,  Come  !  Come  ! 

Thy  pious  people  hasten  — 

Or  gray  their  locks  or  gold  —  then 

Devoutly  to  their  Father's  home. 

Our  German  manners  ancient 

Thou  hold'st  with  fond  attachment, 

My  village  !  here  still  blooms  faith's  flower ; 

Here  girlish  hearts  are  dwelling,  — 

Chaste  snowdrops,  sin  repelling, 

Guarded  by  fairy  good  in  every  hour. 

From  hills  so  gently  sloping, 
Long,  long,  thy  clear  eyes  oping, 
The  world  confront,  O  village  mine  ! 
No  artist  e'er  will  paint  thee, 
Yet  always  radiantly 
A  gem  in  Germany  thou  'It  shine. 


PICTURES    OF   THE   COUNTRY. 


PICTURES   OF  THE   COUNTRY. 


I. 

GOOD   LUCK. 

TV  /TY  daughter,  be  the  rich  man's  wife, 
•*•"•     Provided  then  thou  'It  be  for  life, 

And  need  not  hunger  more. 
His  house  can  with  a  castle  vie, 
His  purse  is  full,  his  standing  high, 

His  fields  with  sheaves  run  o'er. 

Two  dresses  he  has  also  brought ; 
This  hat  —  is  n't  it  splendid  ?  —  bought. 

How  fine  your  clothes  will  be  ! 
I  '11  joy  in  your  good  fortune,  too, 
While  thinking  of  the  poor  girls  who 

Envy  your  finery. 

The  lovely  child,  with  cheeks  as  pale 
As  cherry  blooms  which  young  boughs  veil, 
Looks  downward  dreamily. 


52  POEMS. 

O  tender  bud  in  morn's  soft  glow, 
Not  yet  love's  fervor  dost  thou  know, 
Thy  heart  is  calm  and  free  ! 

She  sees  the  gewgaws,  the  tale  hears 
Her  mother  dins  into  her  ears,  — 

Life  will  be  joy  alone. 
And  almost  ere  she  is  aware 
Before  the  altar  stand  the  pair : 

Her  "  Yes  "  has  made  them  one. 

She  trembles  with  a  thrill  of  fear 

When  bends  her  husband's  gray  head  near, 

And  she  his  kiss  doth  wait. 
A  curious  custom  't  is,  in  sooth, 
To  give  cold  age  the  bloom  of  youth,  — 

Winter  and  Spring  to  mate. 

Fair,  very  fair,  she  looks,  and  good,  — 
Girl-wife  with  face  like  milk  and  blood,  — 

Faithful  in  all  is  she. 
Her  eyes,  of  heaven's  deepest  blue, 
No  tears  dim  with  their  misty  dew, 

No  shapes  of  horror  see. 

Her  lips  smile  as  in  former  days, 
Not  e'en  a  whisper  e'er  betrays 

If  her  chains  burn  like  flame. 
Though  't  were  in  the  confessional, 
No  word  of  disrespect  doth  fall 

Blent  with  her  husband's  name. 


GOOD  LUCK.  53 

Only  when,  shut  within  her  room, 
She  opes  her  closet  door,  doth  come 

Cry  shrill  as  lyre's  snapped  string  : 
"  Two  dresses  and  a  showy  hat,  — 
My  mother  thought  me  worth  just  that ! 

How  small  a  price  brides  bring  !  " 


54  POEMS. 


II. 

PEACE. 

TV/TIDST  the  fields  of  growing   crops   encircled  by 

green  pine-trees  sombre, 
World-forgotten,     world-secluded,    lies    a    home     of 

peasant  farmer. 
Pleasantly  its  gables  white  peer  through  the  emerald 

green  branches, 
Peace  incarnate ;  every  breath  says,  Sorrow  here  no 

sharp  dart  launches. 

Softly  from  the  pipe  the  water  o'er  the  mossy  gray 
stones  rushes ; 

On  the  threshold  lies  a  kitten,  blinking  in  eve's  glow- 
ing blushes; 

Doves  are  in  the  dove-cotes  cooing,  swallows  to  and 
fro  are  soaring ; 

High  above  both  dove  and  swallow  larks  their  joy  in 
song  are  pouring. 

Straight  as  sacrifice  of  Abel,  rising  in  eve's  gold  and 

crimson, 
From  the  thatched  roofs  narrow  chimney  mounts  the 

smoke's  light  airy  column. 


PEACE.  55 

Where  are  all  the  busy  farm  hands,  where  does  the 

young  mistress  linger? 
Through  the  bending  grain  she  's  coming,  her  child 

clinging  to  her  finger. 

White  as  marble  and  grief-shadowed  are  the  young 

wife's  lovely  features, 
As  the  fragments  of  her  pottery  from  off  the  ground 

she  gathers. 
Has  a  tempest  fierce  swept  through  the  house  with 

frantic  fury  raging? 
Had  the  garden,  courtyard,  farm,  no  guard  'gainst  a 

foe  such  warfare  waging? 

But  her  hand  she  lifts  for  silence ;  mid  the  ruins  she 

is  weeping ; 
In  the  jasmine  arbor  lies  her  husband,  with  his  bottle 

sleeping. 
O  fair  Nature  !  even  where  thy   peace  so  happily  has 

nested, 
Ever   has  the  serpent  sin   from    thee  thy  innocence 

thus  wrested. 


56  POEMS. 


III. 

SWEET  LITTLE   MARIE. 

A  H  !  Marie,  my  own  sweet  Marie  so  dear, 
•^     If  thy  promise  my  wife  to  be  I  could  hear  !' 
E'en  though  as  poor  as  beggars  we, 
Yet  arm  in  arm  both  warm  will  be. 
Become  my  wife,  that  I  a  heart 
May  have  to  share  each  joy  and  smart. 
If  thou  wilt  bless  me  with  thy  "  Yes," 
I  '11  grudge  no  king  his  happiness.  — 
The  organ  sounds,  and  the  bells  ring  their  peal : 
In  borrowed  coat  the  young  bridegroom  doth  kneel ; 
He  has  not  even  boots  of  his  own, 
The  handsome  lad  thinking  of  pleasure  alone. 
And  on  his  arm  leaning,  with  golden  hair, 
And  eyes  as  bright  as  the  sunlight  fair, 
The  prettiest  maid  in  the  land  comes  now,  — 
Marie,  joy  throned  on  her  snowy  brow. 
What  care  these  young  hearts  for  pasture  or  plough  ? 
Each  other  they  have,  and  that  is  enow.  — 
Five  years  have  passed  by,  and  four  children  small 
Long-legged  Madam  Stork  has  brought  and  let  fall. 
The  mother  sits  late  in  the  night  at  her  toil,  — 
Her  husband  too  often  from  work  doth  recoil ; 


SWEET  LITTLE  MARIE.  57 

For  howe'er  they  may  strive,  with  e'en  the  best  will, 

Not  always  they  manage  their  hunger  to  still. 

The  husband  grows  peevish  ;  abroad  he  doth  roam  ; 

The  crying  children  for  bread  ask  at  home. 

Marie  for  strangers  her  needle  plies ; 

The  old  witch  Trouble  to  her  side  hies  : 

She  looks  around  with  malignant  eyes, 

And  to  find  some  cause  of  discord  tries. 

The  husband  comes  from  a  wild  carouse, 

Stagg'ring  at  midnight  to  his  house  : 

A  spider's  web  would  his  rage  now  excite  j 

His  hand  Marie's  toil  with  a  blow  doth  requite. 

The  aim  was  true  ;  another  stroke  fell ; 

Happiness  founded  on  love  —  farewell ! 

The  old  witch  Trouble  laughs  in  her  sleeve, 

And  steals  away  through  the  mists  of  eve. 

Who  wails  so  sadly,  while  bright  stars  shine? 

Alas  !  Marie,  sweet  little  Marie  mine  ! 


58  POEMS. 


A  PUBLIC   DANCE. 

JV/T IDST  a  crowd  disorderly 

•^         Walked  a  dreamer,  angels  seeking  : 

Then  in  sorrow  turned  away, 

While  men  ribald  oaths  were  shrieking. 

Sadly  then  his  prophet  glance, 
Soulless  void  so  vacant  scanning, 

Vainly  sought  to  find  a  trace 

Where  God's  breath  a  spark  was  fanning. 

Vapor  all !     He  strove  to  slip, 
From  the  bestial  throng  escaping, 

Through  the  gate.     A  woman  sat 
Midst  the  press,  her  pleasure  taking. 

Vulgar  sensuality 

From  her  saucy  glances  gazes, 
As,  with  many  a  coarse  jest, 

Her  cheap  oranges  she  praises  ; 

From  the  goblet  of  sweet  wine 

Often  secretly  she 's  tasting, 
And  her  scarlet  lips  to  kiss 

All  who  '11  pay,  to  give  she 's  hasting. 


A   PUBLIC  DANCE.  59 

But  what 's  clinging  to  her  breast  ? 

Under  dirty  rags  for  cover, 
Like  the  golden  sunlight  falls 

Her  child's  curls  her  bosom  over. 

Downward,  upward,  and  beside 

Waves  of  sin  and  shame  are  meeting  : 

See  how  pure  and  free  from  stain, 
In  this  child,  God  thee  is  greeting  ! 

On  the  brow  so  lily  fair 

Sweet  innocence  doth  peace  impress, 
Such  as  only  saints  above 

Heaven's  blue  star-strewn  vault  can  bless. 

Slowly  now  its  eyes  unclose, 

Wondrous  azure  depths  unfolding  : 

Bend  thou  lower,  then  thou  canst 
Gaze,  bliss  most  divine  beholding. 

Smiles  not  a  pure  Paradise 

Midst  these  pastimes  base,  infernal? 
Where  no  cherubim  prevents 

Sating  thy  soul  with  joys  eternal. 

Pool  of  mire  is  ne'er  so  deep 

Sunbeam  cannot  reach  with  kisses  ; 

Never  is  there  wilderness 

Which  every  green  oasis  misses. 


6O  POEMS. 


A  POEM   OF   SPRING. 

TTE  comes  with  breezes  blowing, 
•*•        O'er  hills  and  valleys  showing 

His  sunny,  beaming  face. 
Whoe'er  should  seek  to  question 
Why?     Answer  he  would  have  none, 

Save  :  Fool,  love  ever  keeps  his  place. 

With  manners  sweet  and  smiling 
The  earth  he  kisses,  wiling 

To  open  her  dark  eyes. 
Love,  from  thy  couch  arising, 
Robes  on  in  any  guise  fling,  — 

Our  marriage-day  dawns  in  the  skies  ! 

Himself  doth  bring  the  silken 
Robe  and  glittering  gems,  then 

For  bridal  dowry  there  ; 
Mid  gay  jests  and  caresses, 
Wreath  of  white  roses  presses 

On  her  long  locks  of  silken  hair. 

Then  calls  he  :  Up  !  make  ready  ! 
Let  music  sound  and  all  vie, 
Led  by  gay  Madam  Lark  ! 


A   POEM  OF  SPRING.  6 1 

In  the  elder,  nightingale 
For  a  solo  will  not  fail, 

And  give  each  melting  note  due  mark. 

Come,  come,  lads  !  leaping,  springing, 
Wedding  gifts  hither  bringing, 

To  glad  my  lovely  bride  ! 
Swiftly  then  little  elf-hands 
Drag  forth  bright  silver  ribbons, 

With  diamonds  thickly  strewn,  in  pride. 

Clear  tapers'  flame  now  up-pours, 
From  thousand  hearts  of  flowers, 

Which  fragrant  honey  bear  ; 
The  notes  of  sweet  bells  ringing 
Through  all  the  world  are  swinging, 

And  smoke  of  incense  fills  the  air. 

The  banners  green  are  glimmering, 
And  precious  stones  are  shimmering, 

On  ev'ry  smallest  bough  ; 
The  flowers  and  the  grasses 
Grateful  pray'rs  repeat,  when  passes 

The  stripling  Spring  with  radiant  brow. 

The  Lord  himself  is  blessing 
The  nuptial  bond.     Joy,  pressing 

On,  sweeps  o'er  all  the  land, 
Upon  the  wedding  morning 
Grief  and  care  give  no  warning  — 

With  wedlock  they  come  hand  in  hand. 


62  POEMS. 


ONCE   FARED   I   FORTH   INTO  THE 
WORLD. 


fared  I  forth  the  evil  world  into, 
A  child  in  heart  and  mind,  still  pure  and  blame- 

less ; 
Beside  me  from  my  home  no  angel  flew, 

To  guard  me  lest  I  sin  with  purpose  aimless. 
Surrounded  by  the  Tempter's  hordes  I  slipped 

And  fell.     Alas  !  how  vain  was  all  my  praying, 
With  pangs  how  keen  anguish  my  poor  soul  gripped, 
When  sin  me  to  the  very  dust  was  weighing  ! 

Oh,  evil  days  !  full  oft  do  I  recall 

How  I  was  shunned  and  scornfully  derided  ; 
What  contumely  and  sneers  were  heaped  by  all,  — 

No  one  with  peace  or  comfort  to  me  glided. 
How  sorely  my  sad  heart  my  guilt  did  rue, 

While  friends  and  foes  alike  away  were  turning, 
And  every  hour  to  my  lips  anew 

The    cup   of  wormwood    pressed,   mid  jeers   and 
spurning  ! 

Not  e'en  one  mortal  gave  me  pity  mild  ; 

My  father's  heart  seemed  unto  stone  congealing  ; 
Even  my  mother  did  condemn  her  child  ; 

My  life  was  wholly  crushed,  no  hope  revealing. 


ONCE  FARED  I  FORTH  INTO   THE    WORLD.    63 

Then  came  a  message  which  my  full  heart  fired  : 
Arise  !  cast  off  the  snares  around  thee  twining  ! 

Although  to  doom  thee  all  the  world  conspired, 
Thy  God  will  lead  thee  where  His  sun  is  shining. 

Then  fared  I  forth  into  the  world  again, 

My  heart  and  all  my  limbs  for  conflict  steeling ; 
No  kind  farewell  or  hand-clasp  soothed  my  pain,  — 

My  eyes  were  lowered,  their  hot  tears  concealing. 
The  sin  committed  I  have  now  atoned, 

Can  meet  the  gaze  of  God  and  man  unbending ; 
And  those  who  once  on  me  so  sharply  frowned 

Now  smiling  come,  their  ready  hands  extending. 

Free  is  my  glance,  joyous  as  spring  my  heart ; 

My  laughing  lips  of  many  things  are  prating  ; 
In  every  youthful  jest  I  play  my  part ; 

No  grief  to  sickly  love  I  'm  dedicating. 
But  deep  within  my  breast  there  is  one  scar 

Which  will  ache  on  till  I  in  death  am  lying, — 
The  thought  that  those  who  so  self-righteous  are 

The  child  attacked,  stoning  and  crucifying. 


64  POEMS. 


THE  LUNCHEON. 

TV /I  ID  tempest's  roar  and  the  rain's  white  foam 
•*•' A     My  little  boy  from  his  school  came  home, 
Breathlessly  calling  outside  the  door  : 
"  Mother  !  some  bread,  my  hunger 's  sore  !  " 

"  What !  did  you  eat  all  your  knapsack  contained  ?  " 
In  truth  not  even  a  mouthful  remained. 
"  Two  slices  of  bread,  an  apple  so  red,  — 
Yet  hungry  as  though  you  had  not  been  fed  ? 

"  Dear  me,  my  boy  !  did  it  taste  so  good?  " 
"  Yes,"  said  he,  softly.     With  school-book  he  stood, 
His  eyes  on  the  page  :  he  knows  that  he  lies. 
Suddenly  truth  conquers  ev'ry  disguise. 

His  hand  on  mine  with  caressing  touch  lies ; 
He  gazes  at  me  with  questioning  eyes  : 
"  Oh,  mother,  don't  scold !  my  lunch  I  gave 
To  a  poor  little  boy  —  no  food  did  he  have  ; 

"  Nothing  to  eat  for  six  whole  weeks  long ; 
His  father  is  dead,  his  mother  not  strong ; 
And  so  to  the  beggar  I  gave  my  mite. 
Now,  tell  me  quick,  was  it  wrong  or  right?  " 


THE  LUNCHEON.  65 

With  tears  the  fair  boy  to  my  heart  I  caught : 
"  My  child,  you  have  done  just  as  you  ought ; 
For  know  he  only  our  Father  can  love 
Whose  heart  the  poor  with  pity  doth  move. 

"  And  shouldst  thou  in  life  e'er  wander,  my  son, 
God  will  thy  footsteps  guide  from  His  throne ; 
While  the  bread  thou  didst  give  to  the  starving  boy, 
To  efface  all  thy  faults  He  will  one  day  employ." 


66  POEMS. 


LITTLE  BERNHARD. 

CITTING,  one  fair,  bright  spring  morning, 
^     On  my  house's  threshold  idly, 
Gazing  rapturously  toward  heaven, 

While  the  sunbeam's  gold  glowed  widely, 

Conies  a  woman  toward  me  shuffling, 
Dark  her  face  with  care  and  sorrow, 

Lightly  a  boy  baby  nestles 

In  the  crook  of  her  lean  elbow. 

"  Why,  where  found  you  this  fine  fellow? 

Good  dame,  let  me  see  him,  prithee  ; 
Such  bright  glances  round  him  throwing, 

Yet  no  strength  for  walking  hath  he  ?  " 

"  'T  is  the  child  of  my  poor  Lena  ; 

She  from  Herr  Count's  service  creeping, 
When  deserted  by  the  noble, 

Now  in  grass-grown  grave  lies  sleeping. 

"  He  nor  father  has  nor  mother ; 

Starve  we  both  must,  I  well  foreknow. 
Such  a  burden  when  one  's  aged 

Brings  a  sea  of  care  and  sorrow. 


LITTLE  BERNHARD.  6? 

"  To  the  keen  winds  I  expose  him, 
From  the  cold  protect  him,  never, 

Hoping  that  he  '11  be  death's  victim  ; 
But  he  lives  on,  ever,  ever  !  " 

Then  she  grasps  the  little  creature, 

Like  a  bundle  roughly  shaking ; 
But  he  lifts  his  lips  for  kisses, 

Into  shouts  and  laughter  breaking. 

While  aloft  his  arms  he  tosses, 

Showing  how  tall  he  is  growing. 
Twitching  strangely  are  the  dame's  eyes, 

Tear-drops  from  their  lids  are  flowing. 

Now  once  more,  with  heavy  sighing, 
Burden  on  her  back  she  's  raising, 

While  amid  her  woe  and  hatred 
Still  the  goddess  Love  is  gazing. 


68  POEMS. 


THE  LAST  LETTER. 

"  IVrOW  the  address"  —  words  from  her  wan  lips 

•*•  *          slipping,  — 

A  woman,  ill,  and  very  sorely  tried. 
"  First  just  a  little  of  the  potion  sipping 

I  '11  take,  to  give  me  strength  my  pen  to  guide. 
With  effort  I  have  from  my  bed  arisen ; 

My  heart  is  throbbing  rapidly  and  wild ; 
But  mother-love  no  sickness  can  imprison. 

Once  more  I  '11  write  to  my  own  darling  child." 

With  pen  in  hand  they  found  her  prostrate  lying, 

The  letter,  undirected,  by  her  side,  — 
Maternal  love,  though  to  the  last  defying, 

Vanquished  by  death,  with  want  and  woe  allied. 
Sleep  calmly,  loyal  heart,  by  angels  tended, 

Who  thee  have  lulled  to  the  eternal  sleep ; 
They  thy  unfinished  letter  now  have  ended, 

With  diamond  in  thy  child's  heart  written  deep. 


LYRICS  OF  LOVE. 


LYRICS   OF   LOVE, 


THY  KISS. 


'"PHE  kiss  which  rested  on  thy  lips 
•*~      For  mine  own  I  have  captured ; 
Whatever  haps  I  care  not  now  ! 
I  sing  like  bird  enraptured. 


To  whom  the  gods  their  beaker  give 
Should  make  no  long  delaying, 

Or  they  fair  fortune's  glass  might  break, 
Their  holy  wrath  displaying. 

E'en  should  death's  icy  form  now  lie 
Beside  me,  my  couch  sharing, 

The  lips  which  once  to  thine  were  pressed 
Will  greet  him,  bright  smiles  wearing. 


72  POEMS. 


MY  PART  THOU  HAST  AYE  TAKEN. 

"JV/TY  part  thou  hast  aye  taken, 
^*-     E'en  when  all  from  me  turned  ; 
When  even  my  own  mother 
Her  poor  child  coldly  spurned. 

Deserted  and  forsaken, 

I  wandered  through  the  night,  — 
A  leaf  whirled  by  the  tempest, 

But.  not  lost  from  thy  sight. 

The  darts  of  scorn  were  pouring 

On  my  defenceless  head  ; 
Contempt  was  never  ending ; 

Thy  trust  in  me  ne'er  fled. 

By  this  one  thought  of  comfort 

The  path  to  peace  I  found. 
May  blessings,  my  good  angel, 

Forever  thee  surround  ! 


PASSED  BY.  73 


PASSED  BY. 

"  T  'VE  borne  so  much  already," 
•*•  A  little  flow'ret  moans  ; 

"  So  oft  rough  hands  have  pelted 
My  head  with  sand  and  stones  ! 

"  Oft,  too,  have  footsteps  heavy 

Caused  me  such  anguish  keen, 
It  seemed  for  long,  long  hours 
Destroyed  my  life  had  been  ! 

"  But  when,  your  way  pursuing, 
You  calmly  passed  me  by, 

All  pain  that  I  have  suffered 
The  pangs  you  dealt  outvie  !  " 


74  POEMS. 


OH,   TORTURE   NOT  MY  SOUL! 

,  do  not  torture  thus  my  soul, 
Because,  so  calm  and  still, 
Even  beneath  thy  sunlike  kiss 
It  opes  not  at  thy  will. 

For  love  is  a  peculiar  thing, 

Oft  unawares  may  come ; 
Who  seeks  it  on  far  mountain  peaks 

May  find  it  'neath  sea  foam. 

Oh,  do  not  torture  thus  my  soul, 
To  blossom  leave  it  free ; 

Perchance,  beneath  the  flood  of  rain, 
'T  is  dreaming  now  of  thee. 


LOYAL  LOVE.  75 


MY  LOYAL  LOVE. 


'T^HE  nightingale  's  sighing 
"*•      Mid  elder  leaves, 
Coquetting  and  toying 

With  soft  spring  breeze. 
He  flew  to  the  rose, 

His  love  to  prove  : 
To  me  ope  thy  chalice, 

My  loyal  love. 

Beside  garden  hedge  stood 

Two  children  fair  ; 
They  talked  of  a  parting 

To  meet  elsewhere. 
Weep  not,  little  maiden, 

I  '11  fears  disprove  ; 
On  earth  thou  'It  be  ever 

My  loyal  love  ! 

Up  rises  the  lily 

From  azure  lake, 
With  yearning  ascending 

The  moon  to  seek. 


76  POEMS. 

With  silvery  pencil 

He  writes  above : 
"  For  me  live  thou  and  die. 

My  loyal  love  !  " 

Long,  long,  stood  I  pond'ring, 

Silent,  alone ; 
A  rustling  from  fragrant 

Woodlands  was  blown. 
Yet  though  louder  growing, 

No  thief  did  move. 
His  arms  close,  close  hold  me, 

My  loyal  love  ! 


WHY  I  WEEP.  77 


WHY  I  WEEP. 


askest  why  I  'm  weeping  ? 
•*•      From  me  hast  thou  ne'er  known 
Why,  tryst  in  moonlight  keeping, 
The  nightingale  makes  moan? 

She  gazes  at  its  brightness, 

Her  breast  with  yearning  swells  ; 

Within  that  rippling  lightness 
Of  silv'ry  waves  joy  dwells. 

When  all  the  flow'rs  are  blooming, 

So  spectral  and  so  fair, 
In  love's  sweet  pangs  consuming, 

She  fain  would  perish  there. 

She  loves  him  ;  yet  all  vainly 
Her  singing  doth  prolong, 

The  tears  for  all  life's  mis'ry 
Outpouring  in  a  song  ! 


78  POEMS, 


Tl /"HAT  is  it  here  within  my  breast 

*  *       Keeps  springing,  rushing,  flowing  ? 
The  sounds  both  grief  and  joy  suggest, 
Like  palms  in  soft  winds  blowing. 

'T  is  like  the  lark's  exultant  strain 
In  blue  spring  heavens  soaring, 

And  organ  tones  in  holy  fane 
Through  Christmas  incense  pouring. 

It  is  a  jubilant  accord 

Of  harmonies  most  fair ; 
It  is  —  now  I  have  found  the  word  — 

Love's  melodies  so  rare. 


AH,  BIND  MY  HANDS.  79 


AH,   BIND   MY  HANDS. 

A  H,  bind  my  outstretched  hands,  I  pray, 
•^     With  heavy  fetters  chaining, 
Or  they  might  else  on  my  breast  lay 
A  loved  head,  rest  attaining. 

And  wall  up,  too,  this  heart  of  mine, 

In  closest  dungeon  keeping ; 
Already  through  the  windows  shine 

Love's  bright  flames  upward  leaping. 

Oh,  make  me  deaf !  Oh,  make  me  blind  ! 

No  glimpse  of  joy  receiving  ! 
'T  is  hard  for  the  forsaken  child 

To  bear  her  sore  heart's  grieving. 


8O  POEMS. 


THOU. 

A  H,  wouldst  thou  e'en  once  at  me  gaze, 
•*"*'    Thy  eyes  their  spell  swift  weaving, 
With  joyful  courage  I  would  raise 
Life's  burdens,  no  more  grieving. 

If  thou  wouldst  grant  me  but  one  kiss, 

Into  the  sea's  depths  diving, 
The  fairest  pearl  in  its  abyss 

I  'd  bring  thee,  from  it  riving. 

Could  gift  of  all  my  songs  avail 

To  aid  thy  love  in  bringing, 
I  'd  perish  like  the  nightingale 

Who  dies  amid  her  singing. 


/  HAVE  LOVED.  8 1 


I   HAVE   LOVED. 

T  HAVE  drunk  deep  of  the  flaming 

Sun's  all-consuming  glow ; 
I  've  lain  absorbed  in  dreaming 
'Neath  the  moonbeams  silv'ry  flow. 

On  tempestuous  winds,  wild  roaring, 

Over  all  the  world  I  've  sped, 
And,  heaven's  blue  vault  exploring, 

The  stars  have  my  playmates  made. 

The  songs  elves  and  nixies  were  singing 
Reached  me  in  notes  sweet  and  clear, 

And  clouds,  their  soft  hues  mingling 
In  roseate  tints,  floated  near. 

Then  joined  moon  and  sun  in  the  asking : 
Was  aught  more  fair  where  I  roved? 

I  answered,  in  joy's  rapture  basking, 
"  Yes,  yes  !  I  have  loved,  have  loved  !  " 


82  POEMS. 


AH,   HAD   I   SEEN  THEE  SOONER! 

A  H,  had  I  thee  but  sooner  seen, 
•^     Though  e'en  for  one  brief  hour, 
That  happy  moment  would  I  bless 
While  dying  lips  had  pow'r  ! 

Ah,  had  I  thee  but  sooner  loved, 

Thou  pure  light  of  my  soul ! 
I  'd  envy  not  the  fate  of  those 

Whom  angel  hosts  enroll. 

Ah,  had  I  thee  but  sooner  loved, 

Although  in  dreamland  free, 
My  hope's  fair  blossoms  would  not  hang 

All  withered  on  Life's  tree  ! 


THUS  IT  IS.  83 


THUS   IT  IS. 

unto  me  a  rose  thou  gavest,  — 
Meseems  to-day  again  I  take 
The  bud ;  and  as  a  sharp  thorn  pierced  me, 
You  trembling  asked  :  "  Oh,  does  it  ache? 

You  took  your  kerchief,  that  wound  binding, 
'T  was  white  and  soft  as  fair  snowflake  ; 

I  laughed  away  your  childlike  terror, 
And  only  said  :  "  It  does  not  ache." 

But  when  you  bruised  my  heart  so  sorely, 
I  longed  my  kind  all  to  forsake, 

Like  stricken  deer,  you  never  thought  of 
Asking  the  question  :  "Does  it  ache?  " 


84  POEMS. 


THE  SOUND   OF  THE   BELL. 

TV/TV  dear  child,  canst  thou  recall 
•^ A     How,  as  we  said  sad  farewell, 
Clearly  through  the  evening  air 
Came  the  sound  of  vesper  bell  ? 

Not  one  word  did  we  exchange, 
Only,  hands  still  closer  linking, 

Waited  there  all  breathlessly 

Till  died  the  notes,  in  silence  sinking. 

Let  this  thought  a  warning  bear, 

With  mem'ry  of  that  hour  blending ; 

And,  parted  by  the  world's  gay  throng, 
Godward  our  steps  be  ever  tending. 


WEEP  NOT,  FOR  I  LOVE   THEE  I          85 


WEEP  NOT,   FOR  I  LOVE  THEE! 

A  T  dawn  of  ev'ry  morning 
•^     The  red  sun  smiles  in  glee, 
The  dewy  earth  consoling  : 
"  Weep  not,  for  I  love  thee  !  " 

'Neath  waves,  from  home  far  distant, 

Some  one  sleeps  quietly ; 
A  nixie  his  cheek  stroketh  : 

"  Weep  not,  for  I  love  thee !  " 

The  butterfly  doth  hover 
The  rose  above,  with  plea 

Of  ardent  love  caressing  : 

"  Weep  not,  for  I  love  thee  !  " 

But  thou  and  I,  we  only, 
Lack  courage  to  feel  free  ; 

We  say  not,  save  while  dreaming  : 
"  Weep  not,  for  I  love  thee  ! " 


86  POEMS. 


MEMENTO   MORI. 

,  could  I  but  once  more  have  gazed  into 
Thy  hazel  eyes,  which,  like  the  flame  eternal, 

The  worn  and  weary  soul  doth  penetrate  ! 

From  distant  childhood's  days 

Still  echoes  in  mine  ear 

Tones  of  thy  voice  so  sweet, 

With  which  thou  so  oft  didst  greet 

Me  in  the  twilight  hour, 

When,  with  their  secret  fibres, 

My  thoughts  and  all  my  dreaming 

To  thee  clung  ! 

When  thou  didst  press  my  hand  so  warmly, 

With  all  the  ardor  of  thy  heart, 

How  woke  in  mine  the  joyous  dawning 

Presentiment  of  some  great  future  bliss  ! 

Then  Fate  thee  summoned  forth  into  Life's  whirlpool. 

With  joy  didst  thou  obey  ; 

Its  fullest  draught  of  pleasure 

Didst  quaff,  and  in  the  golden  wealth  of  Fortune 

Only  too  soon  forgotten 

Was  vow,  which,  weeping,  thou  in 

Parting  mad'st. 

For,  ah  !  full  soon  didst  thou  another  flow'r 

Cherish  thy  heart  within, 


MEMENTO  MORI.  8? 

Exulting  sang  to  her  the  self- same 
Songs  which  my  own  still,  peaceful  chamber 
To  holy  temple  erst  transformed. 
Upon  thy  knees  she  sat,  from  thy  white 
Brow  the  raven  silky  locks  so  gently  stroking, 
As  I  so  oft  had  done  in  former 
Years,  when,  of  thy  woes  to  me  complaining, 
With  kisses  sweet  the  words 
I  fain  would  speak  from  my  lips  taking. 
Could  I  have  seen  thee  only  once  again, 
As  thou,  by  joy  encompassed, 
Standing  on  Fame's  proud  heights, 
All  sudden  sank  the  night  of  death  into  ! 
Within  Love's  arms  thou  wilt  sleep  on  forever. 
Unboding  wert  thou,  like  a  victor 
Who,  on  his  home's  dear  threshold 
Stricken  by  death,  falls  prone. 
How  many  tears  have  flowed 
To  mourn  thy  death  untimely, 

How  thy  deserted  love  her  hands  in  grief  has  wrung, 
Are  things  I  cannot  know. 
I  can  but  pray  in  morning,  noonday,  evening : 
Oh,   could   I   but   once   more   into  thine  eyes   have 
gazed  ! 


VOICES   OF   REVERENCE. 


VOICES   OF   REVERENCE. 


TO   THE   EMPRESS. 

D  bless  thee,  German  Empress  fair  ! 
God  bless  thee,  noble  as  thy  state  ! 
Thou  know'st  the  flow'ret  growing  where 

Thy  native  meadows  thee  await ; 
The  hue  of  thine  own  eyes  it  wears, 

Forget-me-not  the  name  it  bears,  — 
Of  love  and  faith  the  emblem. 

To-day  by  thousands  we  do  bring 
And  at  thy  feet  its  bloom  present ; 

Scorn  not  our  humble  offering, 
The  nation's  richest  ornament. 

To  God  the  Lord  for  thee  to-day, 

Our  crown's  most  radiant  star,  we  pray, 

Thy  people's  kind,  good  mother ! 


92  POEMS. 

May  God  bless  thy  anointed  head, 
Each  hour  to  thee  His  favor  show  ; 

May  diadem  ne'er  press  like  lead, 
To  bruise  and  chafe  thy  royal  brow. 

If  days  of  sorrow  thou  must  bear, 
Remember,  each  heart-throb  to  share 

Thy  people  stand  beside  thee  ! 


CARMEN  SYLVA.  93 


CARMEN   SYLVA. 

"VTOT  even  once  have  I  looked  on  thy  face ; 

•*•  *     Yet  when   all   cloudless   beams   the  sky's   blue 

space, 

I  think  as  deep,  as  pure,  serene,  and  clear, 
Thine  eyes  may  be  as  this  fair  azure  sphere. 

When  earth  in  all  her  pomp  of  bloom  beguiles, 
And  from  each  flower-cup  an  angel  smiles, 
When  breath  of  love  through  all  the  world  goes  forth, 
I  think  e'en  thus  bewitching  is  thy  mouth. 

All  beauty  which  the  heav'n  and  earth  enfold, 
I  could,  O  noble  Queen,  in  thee  behold ! 
In  very  joy  and  rapture  I  must  weep, 
Because  the  earth  and  heaven  in  thee  tryst  keep. 


94  POEMS. 


TO   KARL   STIELER. 

I. 

TTOW  in  thy  sweet  songs  ringing 
•*"'"     My  own  heart's  tones  I  hear  ! 
Around  me  ever  clinging, 
Familiar  and  so  dear. 

There  sounds  the  same  emotion, 
There  the  same  pang  once  more  ; 

A  burning  smart  and  balsam 
For  heart  so  sick  and  sore. 

Thy  lyre  now  is  silent ; 

Thy  lips,  beneath  death's  spell, 
Have  long  been  hushed  ;  but  present 

In  mem'ry  dost  thou  dwell. 

When  ice-bonds  Spring  has  riven, 

Unto  the  lark  I  say  : 
"  Hath  not  Karl  Stieler  given 

Thee  one  more  roundelay?  " 


TO  KARL  STIELER.  95 


II. 

Not  once  in  life  did  I  e'er  meet  thy  glance,  — 
I,  who  devoutly  listened  to  thy  song  : 

When  hither  borne  by  wand'ring  breeze  of  chance, 
Methought  I  heard  one  of  the  angel  throng. 

In  all  thy  melodies  thou  hast  inwoven 

A  quiv'ring  anguish,  like  my  own  grief  bleeding  : 
Bewailest  happiness,  but  ashes  proven : 

The  joy  whose  loss  I  weep,  no  comfort  heeding. 

Yet  came  the  Muse  for  all  thy  wounds  balm  bringing, 
Which  from  thy  songful  lips  doth  freely  pour ; 

To  me  no  angel  that  redemption  off 'ring  : 
I  mute  remain ;  my  pain  will  ne'er  be  o'er  ! 


III. 

Full  oft  I  Ve  gained  refreshment,  when  weary  was  my 

soul 
Of  wand'rings  long  and  hot,  from  thy  song  like  waters 

cool ; 
Full  often  hath  it  soothed  my  heart-throbs  swift  and 

wild, 
Like  day  of  tempest  followed   by  evening  soft  and 

mild. 


96  POEMS. 

As  God  once  in  the  desert  Israel  manna  gave, 

Thy  treasured  songs  I  garnered  for  Life's  sweet  bread 

to  have ; 
Throughout  the  world  thick   scattered,  like  precious 

pearls  they  lie, 
Each  one  hath  stirred  ray  pulses  till  my  heart  with  joy 

throbbed  high. 

Thy  teaching  made  me  patient  amid  all  cark  and  care ; 
I  learned   to   love    my  fellows,  rejoice  in   all   things 

fair; 
From  off  my  soul  thou  liftedst  the  gloomy  thrall  of 

pain : 
The  blessings  thou  hast  given  to  tell  I  strive  in  vain. 

But  now,  alas!   thy  lyre's  chords  are   shattered   all, 

I  know ; 
Around  thy  grass-grown  grave-mound   cool   evening 

breezes  blow ; 
The    night  is   softly  falling,  —  hot   tears    bedim  my 

sight. 
Sweet  be  thy  rest  and  peaceful ;  may  earth  on  thee 

lie  light. 


IV. 

"  Alas  that  thou  must  die  !  "  ye  all  exclaim, 

When  any  youthful  heart  has  ceased  its  beating ; 

Yet  ye  yourselves  in  culling  do  the  same, 

And  choose  the  blossoms  perfume  still  secreting. 


TO  KARL  STIELER. 


97 


No  doubt  the  mother-bush  doth  moan  and  weep, 
As  at  each  sharp  cut  anguish  keen  she 's  bearing ; 

But  the  soft  night-breeze  bringeth  comfort  deep  : 
"  Some  human  heart  thy  fair  child  now  is  wearing." 

Then  neither  weep  ye  when  God  claims  this  son, 
Patient  whate'er  the  Father  now  requireth ; 

He  needed  him  to  deck  His  heav'nly  throne, 
And  with  the  ripe  ears  flowers,  too,  desireth. 


98  POEMS. 


TO   MY  REVERED  TEACHER, 

PRECENTOR  KERNER,  OF  LENGWETHEN,  ON  HIS 
SEVENTY-SIXTH  BIRTHDAY. 

A  H,  let  me  too,  among  the  children  ling'ring 
•^•*-     Who  all  have  gathered  round  thy  seat  to-day, 
Express  the  wishes  my  full  heart  is  bringing, 

For  Heaven's  blessings  on  thee  warmly  pray. 
With  candle-light  the  school-room  's  brightly  gleaming, 

All  honor  on  thy  natal  day  to  pour  ; 
Fain  would  I  once  more  enter  it,  in  seeming 

Returned  to  scenes  sacred  in  days  of  yore. 

There    stands   the    bench,   ne'er    from    my   mem'ry 
banished  ; 

Thou  cam'st  to  me,  thy  hand  caressed  my  hair. 
Oh,  dear  delight,  once  mine,  but  long  since  vanished, 

When  I  the  gaze  of  thy  clear  eyes  could  share  ! 
When  thou  didst  lead  to  learning's  fair  green  meadows, 

And  gave  to  drink  of  thy  own  spirit's  light, 
Though  love  unto  thy  soul  was  joy  o'erflowing, 

With  thy  life-duty  thou  didst  it  unite. 


TO  MY  REVERED   TEACHER.  99 

How  oft  thou  "Little  chatterbox"  hast  called  me, 

When  my  low  whisper  thy  repose  disturbed  ! 
But  though  my  ready,  nimble  tongue  oft  galled  thee, 

Thou  didst  not  silence,  only  gravely  curbed. 
For,  lo !  a  chatterbox  I  still  continue,  — 

And  now  my  voice  to  the  wide  world  imparts 
The  news  of  great  and  noble  love  we  all  knew, 

Which  thou  hast  scattered  in  a  thousand  hearts. 

No  doubt  long  since  thou  hast  from  thy  book  stricken 

My  name,  and  yellow  doubtless  is  the  page  ; 
But  never  has  my  heart  from  thee  turned,  even 

When  life  did  all  my  time  and  thoughts  engage. 
The  days  of  childhood  and  thy  face  were  shining 

Before  me  like  a  star  in  black  night's  van, 
The  magic  splendors  of  its  rays  combining 

My  spirit's  fire  into  a  blaze  to  fan. 

And  now  farewell !     Before  thee  humbly  kneeling, 

Thy  blessing  I  implore,  Friend  kind  and  wise  : 
Though  love  for  me  a  thousand  hearts  were  feeling, 

Thy  blessing  still  would  be  my  highest  prize. 
In  thought  with  gratitude  thy  hands  I  'm  kissing, 

Bedewing  them  with  tears  of  purest  love. 
God  grant,  until  thee  from  this  life  dismissing, 

Thy  hours  all  happy,  never  sad  may  prove  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


I   WOULD   BE   THE   SUN. 

CUN,  the  sun,  I  fain  would  be, 

Not  the  moon  with  stars  coquetting, 
From  each  stone  by  sorcery 

Red  and  sweet  May-roses  getting. 

Lips  of  flame  I  fain  would  press 

On  the  icy  souls  of  mortals, 
Till  the  world  with  eagerness 

Sought  for  wedlock  churches'  portals. 

And  amid  this  sea  of  fire, 

Sacred  waves  of  pure  love  seething, 
Upward  borne,  would  I  desire 

Slowly,  softly,  to  cease  breathing. 


IO4  POEMS. 


PAST. 

days  of  youth  passed  swiftly  by 
•*•      Almost  ere  I  was  'ware  ; 
My  breast  has  heaved  with  many  a  sigh, 

I  've  grieved  o'er  many  a  care. 
But  glow  of  spring  or  winter's  snow, 

Falsehood  or  fealty, 
Exultant  joy  or  bitter  woe, 

Are  now  the  same  to  me  ! 

Not  even  one  green  twig  of  hope 

My  pilgrim  staff  grows  on  ; 
The  hand  of  Fate  did  gently  lop 

Its  blossoms,  one  by  one. 
No  doubt  my  tears  then  fell  like  rain, 

Half  broken  was  my  heart ; 
But  now  what  care  I  for  the  pain  ? 

In  naught,  have  I  a.  part ! 

All  dark  and  drear  now  dawns  the  day 
And  cold  the  north-wind  blows, 

I  urge  my  life-boat  on  its  way, 
Though  tempests  wild  oppose. 


PAST.  IO5 

Though  I  were  whelmed  the  tide  beneath, 

No  cry  upon  the  blast 
Would  warning  give  of  my  last  breath, 

And  all  would  then  be  past. 

So  let  the  world  go  as  it  will, 

And  make  not  thou  much  moan ; 
My  heart,  keep  thyself  calm  and  still, 

Nor  in  despair  lie  prone  ! 
Like  foam  from  tossing  wave-crest  torn, 

Winter  will  flit  like  May  ; 
To  narrow  chamber  thou  'It  be  borne,  — 

And  all  be  past  for  aye. 


IO6  POEMS. 


BEFORE  THE  JUDGMENT-SEAT. 

A  LITTLE  heart  to  judgment-seat  was  brought, 
•*"*•  Because  no  longer  Duty's  mandate  owning ; 
Its  dark  eyes  gazed  with  anxious  boding  fraught 

Into  Fate's  face,  black-veiled,  and  doubtless  frowning. 
Beside  her  Duty  stood,  of  giant  form, 

With  eyes  lack-lustre,  from  which  tears  were  'scaping  ; 
The  tireless  worker  held  within  her  arm 

A  bunch  of  iron  rods,  for  pastime  shaping  : 
"What  didst  thou  lack,"  Fate's  thunder  tones  began, 

"To  win  the  greatest  joy  in  Life's  awarding? 
To  lift  thy  soul  to  heaven  is  Duty's  plan, 

Thy  steps  the  while  from  all  temptations  guarding ; 
In  hope  and  faith  will  bloom  to  fullest  beauty  — 

E'en  as  the  stake  the  flower's  stalk  doth  stay  — 
The  heart  which  is  forever  leal  to  duty, 

Nor,  like  the  flower  unbound,  in  each  wind  sway !  " 
At  words  so  stern  the  poor  heart  shudders,  bleeds  ; 

With  quiv'ring  lips  she  strove  to  check  her  weeping : 
"  Ah,  grant  me  joy,"  with  anguish  keen  she  pleads, 

"  One  moment,  only  one,  life's  pleasures  reaping  ! 
I  'm  always  shiv'ring  in  the  scanty  dress 

Which  Duty  made.     Alas  !  I  cannot  wear  it, 


BEFORE    THE  JUDGMENT-SEAT.  IO/ 

It  is  too  tight,  and  causes  sore  distress  ; 

Yet  I  dare  don  no  other,  so  must  bear  it. 
See'st  thou  how  beautiful  its  dye,  and  fresh? 

With  my  own  blood  she  hath  it  lately  colored ; 
Each  bitter  word  cut  deep  into  my  flesh, 

There  thou  canst  aye  behold  her  maxims'  record. 
Like  barren  desert  is  her  dreary  face, 

Her  scourge  upon  my  hands  she  lays  not  lightly, 
Upon  my  brow  a  crown  of  thorns  doth  place 

Which  pierce,  though  I  my  head  turn  e'er  so  slightly. 
On  my  robe's  hem  she  fetters  hangs  which  seem 

Too  heavy  for  my  feet  to  carry  farther ; 
Free  am  I  only  in  night's  deepest  dream,  — 

Then  joy's  rose-ladder  mount  we  two  together  ; 
The  palm-grove  greets  me  with  its  rustling  low, 

And  melody  of  harps  draws  me  to  dances 
Of  happy  mortals,  pleasure  once  I  know, 

And,  as  her  child,  joy's  draught  my  soul  entrances. 
Once  only  let  me  see  with  open  eyes 

What  dreams  in  hues  of  fainter  lustre  offer, 
Once  only  sip  the  draught  divine  that  lies 

In  cups  the  fairies  to  each  fair  bride  proffer ; 
Only  once  let  me  cool  my  burning  breast 

In  surges  sweet  of  love's  sea  ever  flowing  ; 
Once  only  let  me  feel  in  all  its  zest 

Joy's  kiss  upon  my  lips  with  fervor  glowing,  — 
My  soul's  salvation  take,  I  '11  give  it  thee, 

Remain  an  outcast  throughout  all  the  future ; 
Ope  once  the  door  of  happiness  to  me, 

Then  crush  me  'neath  thy  foot's  unfeeling  pressure  !  " 


IO8  POEMS. 

And,  weeping  bitterly,  the  heart  fell  prone  : 

"  Change  thou  thy  stern  intent,  cruel  Fate  !  "  crying, 
Clasping  meanwhile  its  weak  arms  round  the  throne,  — 

"  Have  mercy  on  the  heart  for  pity  sighing  ! " 
Fate  waved  her  hand  :  "  So  be  it."     A  breeze  here 

Swept  o'er  the  steps,  with  incense  sweet  enthralling ; 
In  tones  of  warning  from  the  church  tow'r  near 

The  vesper  bells  softly  to  prayer  are  calling. 
In  silence  Duty  doth  at  once  obey, 

With  holy  zeal  her  pallid  cheeks  are  flushing. 
A  shriek  rings  shrilly  through  the  room  :  "  Oh,  stay  !  " 

The  heart  cries,   "  With  you  I  '11  pray  too ! "  and 

rushing 
Forward  to  the  stern  form,  sinks  on  its  breast : 

"  Oh,  fairy  realm  of  happiness,  farewell!  "  — 
Closer  upon  her  brow  the  thorns  she  pressed,  — 

"  With  this  fair,  cruel  sister  I  will  dwell ! " 


THROUGH  THE  FIELD  I  WANDERED.     1 09 


THROUGH  THE  FIELD   I  WANDERED 
DREAMING. 

'"PHROUGH  the  field  I  wandered  dreaming, 
•*•      All  alone  was  I ; 
Roses  on  my  cheeks  were  gleaming, 
Stained  by  sunset  sky. 

Here  and  there  a  bird  was  singing, 

Flow'rs  hung  their  heads  ; 
Like  bright  pearls  the  dew-drops  clinging 

Rested  on  their  lids. 

With  the  sunset's  glories  waning, 

Pallid  my  cheeks  grew  ; 
Breezes,  their  melody  sustaining, 

Bell  notes  to  me  blew. 

"  Gone  forever  !  gone  forever  ! " 

Called  their  peal  to  me  ; 
"  Song  of  birds,  rose-cheeks,  can  never 

More  your  portion  be  !  " 


HO  POEMS. 

Died  the  sweet  tones,  softly  blending, 
Sunset's  fires  were  spent ; 

Homeward  then  my  footsteps  bending 
Wearily  I  went. 

In  my  heart  one  wish  is  present, 

Ne'er  to  slumber  won  ; 
Though  all  other  chords  were  silent, 

It  will  still  sound  on. 

This  from  sanctifying  fires 

Strong  and  pure  arose ; 
Not  until  it  rest  desires, 

I  '11  seek  death's  repose. 


TO  A    YOUNG  GIRL.  Ill 


TO  A  YOUNG   GIRL. 

YT  fHERE  to  its  rest  the  sun  is  hasting, 

A  little  rosy  cloud  still  floats, 
Like  Youth's  last  dream  on  fair  cheeks  casting 
A  glow  which  happy  thoughts  denotes. 

The  bright  days  swiftly  passed,  conveying 
Their  fairy  scents  and  bird-songs  clear 

To  where  joy's  golden  scales  were  swaying, 
And  sunk,  like  sun  when  night  draws  near. 

The  little  cloud  will  soon  be  soaring, 
If  leal,  once  more  in  sunshine  bright ; 

But  who,  thy  happiness  restoring, 

Poor  maid,  will  give  thee  back  its  light  ? 


1 12  POEMS. 


A  QUESTION. 

N'T  the  child  yet  walk  alone?" 
I  hear  where  people  gather, 
"  Is  it  always  falling  prone, 

Can't  it  say  '  Dear  father '  ? " 
See  the  happy  mother  smile, 
In  her  child's  eyes  reading 
That  within  but  a  brief  while 
Its  steps  will  need  no  leading. 

Thus  have  I  questioned  my  heart : 

"  Canst  thou  not  yet  gather 
Strength  to  bear  thy  sorrow's  smart  ? 

Canst  thou  not  say,  '  Father '  ? 
Upward  gaze  with  look  elate 

Where  the  stars  are  shining, 
And  thou  'It  bear  thy  bitter  fate 

Smiling,  not  repining  !  " 


FAREWELL.  113 


FAREWELL. 

pilgrim  staff  is  close  at  hand, 
My  bundle  too  is  tied, 
And  all  who  near  my  heart  do  stand 

With  me  will  still  abide. 
My  wife,  my  child,  my  mother  dear, 

Will  all  remain  with  me  ; 
So  gladly  I  '11  set  forth  from  here, 
For  green  banks  of  the  Spree. 

Within  thy  walls,  O  ancient  house, 

Both  joy  and  grief  I  've  known  ; 
Kind  fate  with  flowers  hath  decked  my  brows, 

And  many  favors  shown. 
Yet  still  to  wander  I  am  fain, 

Elsewhere  I  long  to  dwell ; 
Thy  parting  kiss  I  feel  with  pain,  — 

Beloved  home,  farewell ! 

How  sadly,  budding  chestnut-tree, 

Thou  seem'st  at  me  to  gaze ; 
Upon  thy  lashes  I  can  see 

Tears  shine  in  the  sun's  rays. 


1 14  POEMS. 

A  faithful  guardian  thou  hast  been, 

Though  snows  or  petals  fell ; 
Hast  made  my  heart  with  hope  grow  green,  — 

Beloved  tree,  farewell ! 

No  more  shall  I,  O  much  loved  wood, 

Within  thy  shade  repose, 
While  o'er  me  in  a  blissful  flood 

Of  dreams  Time's  current  flows. 
But  listen,  comrade,  true  of  faith, 

And  brown  deer,  too,  I  tell : 
May  blessings  rest  in  ev'ry  path  ! 

Beloved  wood,  farewell ! 

0  best  of  fathers,  here  unto 
Thy  sacred  grave  I  come, 

And  with  eyes  raised  to  heaven's  blue 

Take  leave  of  thee  and  home. 
My  lips  are  quiv'ring,  hot  tears  run 

As  grief  my  heart  doth  swell ; 

1  feel  that  thou  dost  bless  thy  son,  — 

Beloved  grave,  farewell ! 

We  '11  onward  move,  one  hand -clasp  more, 

O  friends  so  true  and  tried  ! 
Our  bond  of  love  will  twine  far  o'er 

Both  mount  and  valley  wide. 
On,  on,  the  distance  beckoning 

Like  fairy  form  we  see  ! 
Who  knows  what  that  bright  smile  may  bring 

On  green  banks  of  the  Spree  ? 


NOT  IN  THE   GLOOMY  LAP  OF  EARTH.     115 


NOT  IN  THE  GLOOMY  LAP  OF  EARTH. 

TVJOT  in  the  gloomy  lap  of  earth, 
•^      To  ashes  dull  consumed, 
Nor  in  the  narrow  house  of  planks, 
Would  I  e'er  be  entombed. 

But  when  at  night  the  shining  stars 

Say,  "  Come  !  "  mysteriously, 
Wide  will  I  stretch  my  arms  and  plunge 

Deep,  deep  into  the  sea. 

The  lips  of  nixies,  lilies  chaste, 

Will  kiss  my  eyelids  close, 
And  waves  will  gently  bear  me 

Unto  my  last  repose. 

For  mourners  I  shall  have  the  fish 

Which  in  the  waters  dwell, 
And  distant  surges'  thund'ring  tones 

Will  toll  my  fun'ral  knell. 

The  water-lilies  fetters  soft 

Will  bind  o'er  hands  and  feet, 
And  for  my  robe  the  moon  will  weave 

A  silver  winding-sheet. 


Il6  POEMS. 

With  stars  above  and  stars  below, 
I  'II  sink  deep  in  the  sea  ; 

Then  from  the  flames  of  earthly  pain 
My  heart  will  aye  be  free. 


OH,  MOTHER  DEAR  I 


OH,   MOTHER   DEAR! 

"  "XT AUGHT  can  with  breeze  of  Spring  compare, 

•^  *     That  wooing,  soft,  caressing  air." 
So  say  we  oft,  and  drink  its  wine, 
Rejoicing  in  the  bright  sunshine. 
Yet  something  softer,  well  I  know, 
Than  wind  of  May  or  water's  flow, 
Far  softer  e'en  than  silken  band,  — 
It  is  a  loving  mother's  hand. 

When  flames  the  brilliant  evening  star, 

Glad  eyes  behold  the  radiance  far, 

And  think,  while  gazing  at  its  light, 

No  suns  can  pour  forth  beams  more  bright. 

Yet  fairer  radiance  I  know, 

Stars  shining  with  a  steadfast  glow, 

Which  consolation  aye  supplies, — 

It  is  a  loving  mother's  eyes. 

Along  Life's  path  thou  'It  often  rest, 
To  fasten  flowers  on  thy  breast 
Of  fragrant  scent,  hues  blue  and  red  : 
The  morrow  finds  them  withered,  dead. 


Il8  POEMS. 

One  flower  alone  is  ever  true, 

Its  perfume  ever  gives  anew ; 

The  same  in  joy,  or  mid  pain's  smart, — 

It  is  a  loving  mother's  heart. 

Oh,  mother's  eye  !  oh,  mother's  hand  ! 
Whoe'er  these  blessings  can  command, 
Along  Life's  swaying  plank  will  aye 
Press  steadfast  on  in  the  right  way. 
If  sets  what  seemed  joy's  sun  to  be, 
Unto  thy  mother  thou  canst  flee ; 
Thou  'It  ne'er  be  poor  nor  quite  alone, 
Whilst  thou  a  mother  call'st  thine  own  ! 


WHILE    THOU  WERT  SITTING  SADLY.      119 


WHILE   THOU   WERT  SITTING   SADLY. 

Tl  7 RILE  thou  wert  sitting  sadly  grieving, 

*  *       The  grave  and  death  thy  only  thought, 
Thou  didst  not  see  the  angels  weaving 

A  new  bright  dawn,  with  fair  hopes  wrought. 

Thou  didst  not  see  that  they  had  woven 

A  linen  web  so  soft  and  fair, 
Which,  shaped  by  God,  bandage  hath  proven 

That  thou,  to  cool  thy  wounds,  mayst  wear. 

God  grant  that  once  more  on  thee  beaming 

The  sun  in  radiance  may  appear, 
And  o'er  thy  heart,  in  brightness  gleaming, 

The  star  of  peace  shine  full  and  clear ! 


I2O  POEMS. 


IN  THE  WATER. 

A  H,  not  in  forest,  nor  moorlands  sun-lighted, 
•^     Lay  me  to  rest  when  from  clay  disunited ; 
Nor,  step  in  rank  and  file  aye  keeping, 
Will  I  march  on  to  my  long  sleeping. 
In  waves,  in  the  waves,  mid  their  cool,  soft  flow, 
Ah,  lower  me  down  :  I  shall  rest  there,  I  know. 

Not  e'en  a  flower  I  need  of  your  giving, 

I  '11  have  in  death  nothing  denied  to  me  living; 

Nor  singing,  nor  praying,  nor  church-bells  ringing, 
Need  ye  come  to  my  soul  as  off 'ring  bringing : 

The  waves  surging  high  '11  be  my  funeral  knell,  — 
In  waves,  in  the  waves,  there  shall  I  rest  well. 

No  one  for  me  will  here  be  sore  grieving, 
Below  mid  the  fishes  fond  kisses  receiving, 

With  nixies  in  songs  their  fond  love  expressing, 
While  my  rigid  limbs  so  softly  caressing  ; 

Forever  cooled  my  heart's  passionate  glow,  — 
In  waves,  in  the  waves,  I  shall  rest  there,  I  know. 


IN  THE   WATER.  121 

And  when  the  Trump  of  Doom  its  blast  is  sending, 
I  need  not  toil,  rocks  and  turf  o'er  me  rending ; 

But  while  the  water's  arms  are  gently  raising 

Me,  join  at  once  in  songs  of  thanks  and  praising. 

In  waves,  in  the  waves,  mid  their  cool,  soft  flow, 
Oh,  lower  me  down!     I  shall  rest  there,  I  know. 


122  POEMS. 


THE  SKIFF. 

low  clanking,  a  chain  's  holding 
Firm  the  lightly  modelled  boat ; 
While  this  sheltered  spot 's  enfolding 
Thee,  thou  canst  securely  float. 

Here  art  thou  not  safely  guarded, 
Howe'er  fierce  the  tempest  blows? 

Tears  and  troubles  all  discarded, 
Naught  disturbs  thy  calm  repose. 

Heed  not  snowy  water-lilies, 

Nor  the  nixies,  one  and  all ; 
They  but  tempt  with  wiles  and  sorc'ries, 

Luring  down  to  sudden  fall. 

But  the  boat  with  soft,  sad  plashing 

Sighs  unto  the  yellow  sand  ; 
Firmly  fastened,  yet  still  dashing, 

Her  light  breast  'gainst  the  steep  strand. 

Former  liberty  I  'm  craving, 
Weighs  thy  chain  too  heavily ; 

Fain  would  I,  my  light  limbs  laving, 
Plunge  them  deep  in  azure  sea. 


THE  SKIFF.  123 

Though  the  tempest  struck  me,  flinging 

Thousand  fragments  in  its  glee, 
My  loose  planks  would  join  in  singing 

With  the  nixies  :  "  We  are  free  ! " 


124  POEMS. 


RETALIATION. 

TVTO  one  'mong  children  good  me  named, 
•^  *      Or  thought  of  meeting, 
I  liked  the  waters  clear  to  stir 
With  sharp  rods  beating. 

The  deeper  in  the  element 

My  swift  strokes  pushing, 
The  louder  from  my  childish  lips 

Glad  shouts  came  rushing. 

Now  I  am  lashed  and  beaten  by 

Life's  education  : 
Can  there  perchance  in  Nature  be 

Retaliation  ? 

It  may  be  so  ;  yet  for  one  fault 

No  one  shall  blame  me. 
I  silent  bear  my  woe ;  the  tide 

Shall  never  shame  me. 


THE  SONG   OF  MY  LITTLE  LAD.          12$ 


THE   SONG  OF   MY   LITTLE   LAD. 


"CULL  many  songs  forth  I  Ve  been  sending, 
•*•       Of  joy  exultant  or  deep  woe  ; 
Ere  died  the  last,  with  silence  blending, 

I  felt  a  fresh  poetic  throe  ; 
But  as  the  others  far  transcending, 
All  are  this  of  my  lad  commending. 


My  son,  my  darling  boy,  with  flowing 
Fair  locks  of  thick  and  silken  hair,  — 

Ah,  surely  there  's  no  other  showing 

Eyes,  which  can  with  thy  stars  compare  ! 

No  one  hath  lips  more  brightly  glowing  : 

Yes,  yes,  how  handsome  my  lad  's  growing ! 

His  laugh  so  gayly  rings  while  playing, 

In  my  heart  waking  echoes  oft, 
As,  boyish  impulses  obeying, 

Jests  tease  his  brown-skinned  sister  oft. 
Like  snow-wreaths  'neath  the  March  sun  staying, 
It  melts  the  grief  on  my  soul  weighing. 


126  POEMS. 

Full  oft  into  his  chamber  stealing, 
When  the  wee  elf  has  gone  to  sleep, 

I  watch,  while  joy  and  fear  both  feeling, 
The  flush  his  rosy  cheeks  still  keep, 

And  see  the  child's  "  Our  Father  "  sealing 

Chaste  lips,  their  curves  the  words  revealing. 

My  son,  my  boy,  may  Fate  thee  bringing 
What  to  thy  mother  is  denied, 

Aid  thee  thy  flight  to  summits  winging, 
Where  but  the  eagle  dares  abide  ! 

Mayst  thou,  with  silv'ry  notes  clear  ringing, 

Laurel  and  myrtle  win  by  singing  ! 

Then  will  I  my  own  lyre  lower, 

And  listen  only  to  thy  tone  ; 
The  world  to  wound  will  have  no  power, 

Avenged  shall  I  be  through  my  son. 
Whoe'er  the  son  with  bay  doth  dower, 
Honors  his  mother  in  that  hour. 


My  BOY.  127 


MY  BOY. 

rPHE  sons  of  many  other  mothers 
•*•       Have  pink  and  white  cheeks  just  as  fair, 
And  wealth  of  gold  and  brown  locks  waving ; 

But  none  can  with  my  boy  compare  ! 
Oft  in  the  distance  with  his  comrades 

I  see  him  coining,  while  afar, 
Among  the  whole  group  shining  radiant 

As  when  from  gray  clouds  gleams  a  star ! 

When  merry  songs  in  neighb'ring  woodlands 

Ring  forth  like  sweet  bells,  pure  and  clear, 
I  hear  but  one  mid  all  the  voices,  — 

My  son's  alone  doth  reach  my  ear  ! 
And  when  a  ball  in  happy  play-time 

Flies  upward  to  the  very  roof, 
I  know  that  my  own  boy's  hand  flung  it,  — 

Of  his  young  strength  a  joyous  proof ! 

When  fifteen  more  brief  years  have  fleeted, 

The  vision  ye  will  see  with  me, 
As  slender  as  a  green  young  fir-trunk 

He  stands  beneath  the  apple-tree  ! 


128  POEMS. 

E'en  now  his  bright,  clear  eyes  uplifted 
The  radiant  sunshine  strive  to  bear  : 

Yes,  there  are  sons  of  other  mothers, 
But  none  can  with  my  boy  compare  ! 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER.  129 


TO  MY   DAUGHTER. 

T^AIN  would  I  see  thee  silken  garments  wearing, 
•*•       Mid  braided  locks  bright  flashing  jewels  bearing, 
A  golden  bracelet  on  thy  arm  secure  : 
Forgive  me,  dearest  child,  I  am  too  poor. 

Now  gladly  would  I,  to  thy  banquet  going, 
Pour  richest  wine  from  silver  goblet  flowing, 
At  night  with  purple  wrap  thee  warmly  o'er : 
Forgive  me,  dearest  child,  I  am  too  poor. 

I  nothing  have  except  my  love  to  give  thee  ; 
From  it  a  little  warm  shawl  I  will  weave  thee  ; 
Entwining  with  it  blessings  manifold, 
And  prayers  that  God  thee  safe  from  ill  will  hold. 

That  He  from  all  grief's  storms  thee  ever  guarding, 
To  deck  thy  breast  love's  roses  fair  awarding, 
May  feed  and  give  thee  drink  from  mercy's  store  : 
This  is  my  wish,  dear  child ;  I  have  naught  more. 


130  POEMS. 


BEAUTIFUL  EYES. 

I. 

"C'EN  as  the  wand'rer  for  the  forest's  shadow 
•*-'         Doth  sadly  yearn, 

When  naught  save  deserts  bare,  no  tree  nor  meadow, 
Can  he  discern ; 

E'en  as  the  convict  in  his  dungeon  lying 

The  night  doth  greet, 
When,  on  dream  pinions,  joy  and  sunshine  flying 

Make  his  woe  sweet,  — 

So  in  thine  eyes'  soft,  shadow-cool  recesses 

My  worn  heart  lies, 
Till,  freed  from  burdens  of  griefs  sore  distresses, 

It  heav'nward  flies  ! 


II. 

Earnest,  mystic,  wondrous  past  ken, 
Turn  ye  not,  dark  eyes,  away  ! 

Be  my  cradle,  be  my  heaven, 
And  cool  grave  of  grief,  I  pray. 


BEAUTIFUL  EYES.  131 

For  your  mystic  depths  aye  yearning 

Ceaseless  seeks  my  soul  its  bliss, 
Peace  and  happiness  discerning 

Only  in  your  dark  abyss. 


III. 

Oh,  eye  that  with  such  magic  flashes, 
Tell  me,  what  dost  thou  dream, 

When  on  thy  long  and  silken  lashes 
Tear-drops  like  diamonds  gleam  ? 

Perchance  't  is  of  the  tender  flower 
Which  for  thy  sake  hath  bloomed, 

And  forth  its  chaste,  pure  soul  did  pour 
To  be  in  thee  entombed.  > 

Lov'st  thou  the  lily  white  and  slender 
Which  in  thy  depths  doth  live, 

And  for  whose  growth,  with  care  so  tender, 
Dews  precious  thou  dost  give? 


IV. 

Although  thine  eyes  are  fathomless, 

I  fain  would  gaze  therein  ; 
The  flow'rets  with  such  tempting  stress 

Lure  me,  my  heart  to  win. 


132  POEMS. 

I  lower  bend,  and  gazing  stay ; 

Still  my  glance  fixed  I  keep, 
While  Innocence  beside  the  way 

For  her  lost  child  doth  weep. 


V. 

When  I  to  gaze  in  thine  eyes  dare, 
The  world  to  me  looks  doubly  fair ; 

When  bright  and  cheerful  is  my  mind, 
I  think  that  every  heart  is  kind ; 

Forget  all  cares  that  haunt  my  way, 
Nay,  e'en  the  coming  Judgment  Day. 

Thine  eye  my  life-fount  surely  hath ; 
It  calms  my  heart  and  cools  my  wrath. 

Oh,  do  not  trembling  from  me  shrink, 
Permit  my  soul  thy  gaze  to  drink ! 

Let  not  thy  lashes  from  me  quite 
Conceal  what  is  my  life's  sweet  light ; 

And  when  within  my  grave  I  lie, 
Look  down  on  me  with  loving  eye  ! 

The  light  of  thy  gaze  on  me  pour, 
It  is  more  dear  than  wreath  or  flow'r. 

The  joys  of  heaven  I  would  not  share, 
If  thine  eyes  did  not  greet  me  there  ! 


NIGHT.  133 


NIGHT. 

TT OW  colorless  the  sky  and  dreary, 

•*••*•     Which  wore  by  day  a  smile  so  bright ! 

The  clouds,  as  if  of  tears  aweary, 

Like  beggars  mute  sweep  through  the  night. 

Their  little  heads  the  flowers  hang  sleeping ; 

Not  e'en  one  leaf  moves  on  the  tree ; 
Only  the  waves,  to  my  feet  creeping, 

Exchange  soft  kisses  dreamily. 

The  forest  stands  in  deepest  silence, 

The  birds  have  long  since  ceased  to  sing ; 

But  faintly,  from  the  ghostly  distance, 
The  breeze  a  bell's  low  note  doth  bring. 

Upon  the  moss  in  worship  blissful 

I  kneel ;  my  tears  like  dew-drops  fall. 

Oh,  holy  nights,  calm,  starless,  peaceful, 
How  fervently  I  love  ye  all ! 


134  POEMS. 


OPEN  THY   HEART. 

A  DMIT  into  thy  silent  breast 
•*•"*•    The  notes  of  but  one  bird, 
And  instantly  thy  soul  will  join 
In  jubilant  accord. 

The  perfume  of  a  single  flow'r 
Inhale  like  breath  of  God, 

And  in  the  garden  of  thy  heart 
A  thousand  buds  will  nod. 

Toward  one  star  in  heaven's  expanse 

Direct  thy  spirit's  flight, 
And  thou  wilt  have  in  the  wide  world, 

My  child,  enough  delight. 


OH,  LOVE   THOU  TOO!  135 


OH,   LOVE  THOU  TOO! 


waves  are  all  whisp'ring, 
•*•      In  moonlight  clear, 
The  sweetest  of  dance-tunes 

For  nixies'  ear ; 
They  laugh  and  they  beckon, 

Each  other  woo, 
And  say  with  their  plashing : 
"  Oh,  love  thou  too  !  " 


In  blossoming  linden, 

Each  year,  a  pair 
Of  doves  to  their  nestlings 

Show  tender  care ; 
They  're  billing  and  cooing, 

Like  lovers  true, 
While  twittering  softly : 

"  Oh,  love  thou  too !  " 

How  surely  the  heaven 
The  earth  holds  dear, 

E'en  though  it  looks  sometimes 
So  dull  and  drear ! 


136  POEMS. 

Yet  through  the  gray  clouds  breaks 

The  sun  anew, 
And  laughingly  greets  with  : 

"  Oh,  love  thou  too !  " 

Wouldst  know  the  real  meaning 

Which  love  doth  fold? 
Thou  must  the  Redeemer's 

Image  behold : 
"  My  life  thee  I  Ve  given.  — 

What  wilt  thou  do  ? 
Oh,  heart,  restless  throbbing, 

Now  love  thou  too  !  " 


TO  MY  ROSE.  137 


TO  MY  ROSE. 

to  my  heart,  rose  lightly  swaying 
Upon  thy  bending,  slender  stem, 
Lest  leafless  autumn,  thee  dismaying, 

Should  seize  thy  curled  locks,  rending  them  ! 
Upon  my  heart  securely  resting 

From  tempest,  storm,  and  every  ill, 
Each  morn  with  kisses  to  thee  hasting, 
Love,  with  new  life,  each  pulse  will  thrill ! 

I  know  a  wondrous  lovely  Eden 

Far  from  the  rude  world's  din  and  roar, 
Where  all  the  charming  flower-children 

Talk  love,  —  love  only,  evermore  ; 
Where  nightingales  exulting,  wailing, 

Of  love's  joys  and  love's  sorrows  sing,  — 
Oh,  trust  my  strength  of  arm  unfailing, 

Thee  there  to  dwell  for  aye  't  will  bring ! 

Oh,  do  not  shake  thy  fragrant  tresses  ! 

Thy  beauty,  too,  soon  will  have  fled, 
And  winter  '11  strew,  as  on  he  presses, 

His  snowflakes  white  upon  thy  head. 


138  POEMS. 

Dost  thou  not  feel  the  chill  of  autumn  ? 

Thy  sisters  wither  'neath  its  dart. 
Thou  fragile  rose  on  swaying  stalk,  come  ! 

Thy  fate  decide  :  Come  to  my  heart ! 


/  AM  FREEZING.  139 


I  AM  FREEZING. 

TV/T  ID  sunshine's  glow  I  freezing  stand 
***•     While  flow'rs  bloom  brilliantly, 
Since  once  a  cold  and  cruel  hand 
A  draught  hath  given  me. 

I  'm  freezing  by  the  fireside's  blaze ; 

Though  hot  flames  fiercely  rolled, 
And  I  should  ever  at  them  gaze, 

Still  ever  I  'd  be  cold. 

E'en  though  with  sun  and  fire's  glow 
The  highest  heavens  were  red, 

My  blood,  now  ice,  would  never  flow : 
I  freeze  —  my  heart  is  dead ! 


I4O  POEMS. 


I   GREET  THEE. 

/"~\H,  kindred  soul,  I  give  thee  greeting, 
^^     E'en  as  we  greet  the  sunshine  bright, 
Which,  after  winter's  night,  uncloses 

The  springtide  days  of  warmth  and  light ! 

As  'neath  Spring's  kisses,  warm  and  tender, 
The  flowers  their  bright  faces  show, 

So  thou  within  my  heart  dost  conjure 
The  first  green  blade  of  hope  to  grow. 

And  from  that  heart,  to  new  life  kindled, 
Doth  softly  rise  an  earnest  prayer, 

That  God  this  sunbeam  ever  guarding 
Will  its  light  always  to  me  spare. 

Whatever  tempests  may  assail  me, 
My  trusting  heart  will  ne'er  despair : 

Oh,  kindred  soul,  1  give  thee  greeting ! 
God  bless  thee,  my  own  sunlight  fair  ! 


DISAPPOINTED,  141 


DISAPPOINTED. 

A    GLEAMING  pearl  lay  on  the  strand, 
^~*-     It  seemed  a  beauteous  one  ; 
Yet  when  I  grasped  it  in  my  hand, 
'T  was  but  a  pebble-stone. 

I  plucked  a  crimson  rose  so  fair, 

Fragrant  as  a  spring  morn  : 
When  on  my  breast  I  sought  to  wear 

The  flow'r,  't  was  but  a  thorn. 

A  heart,  too,  once  was  sent  to  me,  — 
I  thought  it  glowed  with  love  ; 

But,  bound  to  mine  eternally, 
No  ice  could  colder  prove. 


142  POEMS. 


NO   SONG   CAN   I   SUCCEED   IN   SINGING. 

TVTO  song  can  I  succeed  in  singing, 

•*•  '      How  light  the  task  in  days  of  yore  ; 

Are  now  my  pinions  weary,  winging 

Their  flight  woe's  wide  realm  to  explore  ? 
Have  all  the  blazing  torches  vanished, 

Does  no  bloom  on  the  flowers  remain? 
As  if  the  heavy  rods  Fate  brandished 

Had  from  my  wreath  its  last  leaf  ta'en  ? 

No,  no  !     Cheer  up,  my  spirit  mounting 

Up,  up,  toward  the  sunshine  move  ! 
Strike  thou  thy  lyre,  thy  griefs  ne'er  counting, 

And  steadfast  fix  thine  eyes  above  ! 
As  from  the  bonds  of  winter  leaping, 

The  spring  doth  force  a  current  free, 
Thy  song  pour  forth,  and,  firmly  keeping 

Thy  flag  close  clasped,  a  victor  be. 


UNTIL    WE  MEET  AGAIN.  143 


UNTIL  WE  MEET  AGAIN. 

"  TNTIL  we  meet  again !  it  hopeful  rings, 
^     When  friendly  hands  are  clasped,  a  farewell  taking. 
Oh,  words  of  comfort,  which  love's  tribute  brings, 
No  others  cheer  like  these,  the  silence  breaking. 

Your  palm-bough  on  all  crosses  waves  aloft, 
Ye  dry  the  tears  upon  our  lashes  clust'ring, 

Ye  render  thorn  crowns  light  and  velvet  soft, 

O'er  cliffs  and  seas  your  golden  bridges  thrusting. 

And  should  the  words  the  scorner  says  prove  true, 
Should  death  my  soul  seize,  too,  conquest  complet- 
ing, 

The  promised  morn  ne'er  dawn,  life  bringing  new,  — 
Oh,  let  me  still  believe  in  future  meeting ! 


144  POEMS. 


STARS  THE  SKY  ARE  FILLING. 

STARS  the  sky  are  filling ! 
What  a  radiant  light ! 
Deep  within  my  heart  reigns 
Black  and  stormy  night. 

Silv'ry  dew-drops  glitter, 

Strewn  o'er  wood  and  wold ; 

My  wan  cheeks  are  furrowed 
Where  sad  tears  have  rolled. 

Everywhere  peace  reigneth, 
Sacred,  deepest  peace ; 

But  in  my  brain  weary 
Conflicts  never  cease. 

Throbbing,  seething,  burning, 

Till  consumed  am  I, 
And  from  the  dead  ashes 

Swift  my  soul  will  fly. 


WHAT  I  LOVE.  145 


WHAT  I   LOVE. 

A    SKY  always  cloudless 
**•     Would  not  be  fair ; 
It  would  kill  the  flow'rets 

Everywhere ! 
The  ground  would  soon  harden 

In  sunshine's  glow, 
And  then  the  fair  flowers 

Could  never  grow. 

For  happiness  endless 

I  would  not  yearn, 
No  bridge  to  sleep  leading 

Could  I  discern. 
E'en  though  I  should  empty 

The  cup  of  joy, 
Still  I  should  be  thirsting, 

Ne'er  would  it  cloy. 

I  love  the  cloud  curtain, 
Which  veils  the  blue  ; 

Unto  earth  it  bringeth 
The  cooling  dew. 


146  POEMS. 


The  keen  pain  and  anguish 

Of  grief  I  love ; 
They  bear  our  hearts  unto 

The  heights  above. 


PAIN  YOU'VE   GIVEN.  147 


PAIN   YOU'VE  GIVEN. 

T)AIN  you  Ve  given,  bitter  pain, 
-*•       Words  forever  ringing, 
In  my  ears  their  sad  refrain 
Grief  for  error  bringing. 

Words  cannot,  though  sweet  and  kind, 

Compensation  offer ; 
Courage  yet  I  do  not  find 

Thee  my  hand  to  proffer. 

Thousand  tongues  can  tell  the  tale, 

Keen  remorse  revealing. 
Can  tears  to  blot  my  fault  avail, 

'Neath  my  eyelids  stealing? 


148  POEMS. 


WOULD   I   WERE  DEAD! 

\\  /"OULD  I  were  dead  !     How  sweet  must  sleep  be, 
VV          lying, 

Thus  from  all  earthly  sorrows  far  removed ; 
Like  mariner  from  sheltered  harbor  eying 

With  quiet  gaze  the  sea's  tempestuous  flood, 
While  to  safe  haven  Fate  his  ship  hath  led  — 
Would  I  were  dead  ! 

Would    I   were   dead !     What    dreams   of  wondrous 

beauty 

Must  visit  those  in  the  cool  house  below ; 
When  linden-trees,  low  rustling,  roused  to  duty, 

No  more  would  I  to  life,  so  barren,  go, 
Nor  grief  nor  care  could  reach  my  narrow  bed  — 
Would  I  were  dead  ! 

Would  I  were  dead  !     Both  hate  and  love  past  feeling, 
The  pangs  all  past  which  mankind  to  me  gave. 

My  glowing  heart,  now  into  dust  congealing, 
Mouldering  slowly  in  the  peaceful  grave, 

The  flow'rs  all  withered  which  once  fragrance  shed  — 
Would  I  were  dead  ! 


WOULD  I  WERE  DEAD!  149 

Would  I  were  dead  !     The  evening  shades  come  gliding, 
I  Ve  seen  enough  delusions  here  below, 

The  birds'  sweet  songs  in  silence  are  subsiding, 
An  icy  wind  doth  on  my  temples  blow. 

Long  since  hath  faded  joy's  last  sunset  red  — 
Would  I  were  dead  ! 


ISO  POEMS. 


VANISHED. 

T^\IED  away,  in  silence  endless, 

All  my  lyre's  rich  tones  so  sweet ; 
Never  will  their  music  cheering 
More  my  soul,  so  weary,  greet. 

Spent  and  dry  the  spring  now  lieth, 
Which  so  oft  my  heart  did  cool  — 

When  deep  grief,  with  iron  finger, 
To  its  depths  hath  stirred  the  pool. 

Gone  forever  have  my  sun's  rays, 
Which  with  light  so  brilliant  shone ; 

Never  in  this  life  another 

Will  be  sent  me  for  mine  own ! 


HUSH.  151 


HUSH. 

TTUSH,  hush! 
•!••*•     Hot  weeping  spurn, 
Some  day  tears 
To  ice  will  turn. 

Soon,  soon 

Thou  wilt  be  cool, 
Ere  thou  art  'ware, 

Thou  'It  reach  the  goal. 

Far,  far 

Will  pain  depart, 
Thy  bones  dust  be, 

Dust,  too,  thy  heart ! 


152  POEMS. 


THE  DELUSION   OF  GRANDEUR. 

T  N  dreams  I  once  —  I  cannot  now  help  smiling  — 
•*•     Believed  myself  a  princess  wondrous  fair. 
My  feet  were  silken  clad,  and,  time  beguiling, 

I  donned  the  garments  rich  the  royal  wear. 
Around  my  palace  walls  were  Hussars  standing, 

Each  man  wore  buttons  of  the  purest  gold ; 
While  I,  court  fool  to  minister  commanding, 

All,  subject  to  my  lightest  wish,  controlled. 

Why  had  I  to  such  lofty  height  ere  mounted  ? 

By  no  cause  could  I  this  strange  dream  explain ; 
To  poverty  from  earliest  childhood  wonted, 

Ne'er  had  I  quaffed  the  foam  of  joy's  champagne. 
And  then  I  ripped  the  pillow's  striped  cover  — 

'Twas  filled  with  shining  plumage  of  the  cock  : 
All  strain  to  solve  the  puzzle  now  was  over, 

And  why  in  dreams  grandeur  and  joy  me  mock  ! 


AUTUMN.  153 


AUTUMN. 

again,  o'er  all  the  land, 
Autumn's  golden  rain  is  sweeping ; 
Wearied  by  the  summer's  heat, 
Many  heads  seek  rest  in  sleeping. 

For  the  last  time  dying  flowers 

Fragrance  breathe  from  blossoms  pouring  ; 
Where  the  rustling  grain  once  waved, 

Smoke  from  shepherds'  fires  is  soaring. 

Softly,  with  no  joyous  notes, 

Birds  of  passage  southward  winging, 

With  light  stroke  of  pinions  now 

Kiss  their  nests,  —  a  farewell  flinging. 

Ah,  the  hour  when  Nature  draws 
Her  last  breath,  to  ice  congealing, 

Never  can  the  eye  discern,  — 
To  the  soul  't  is  known  by  feeling. 

Thus  shall  we  all  also  fare  : 

When  has  passed  the  summer's  singing, 
And  the  joys  of  life  have  fled, 

Cometh  Death  to  all  rest  bringing. 


1 54  POEMS. 

In  the  tempest  and  in  want, 

Or  the  sunshine  and  joy  knowing, 

Softly  under  hand  of  God 
Our  souls  will  pass,  to  silence  going. 


POETIC   TRIFLES.  155 


POETIC   TRIFLES. 

*V\ J HERE  happiness,  still,  calm,  and  pure, 
*  *       Doth  like  a  flow'r  unfold, 
Let  ev'ry  hand  rude  touch  abjure, 
And  say,  "  May  God  thee  hold !  " 


THE  tears  which  sorrowful  yearning  sheds 

Are  all  united  in  pearly  beads  ; 
In  every  flower's  cup  they're  found 

Which  lonely  grows  in  the  wayside  ground. 


IN  peace  let  the  dead  sleep. 

And  scourge  thou  them  not ; 
To  God's  judgment  seat 

Thou,  too,  wilt  be  brought. 


WHEN  Life 's  smoothly  flowing, 

No  obstacles  e'er  showing, 
Then  wise  and  virtuous  are  we, 

And  plume  ourselves  so  strong  to  be. 


156  POEMS. 

Yet  only  those  are  counted 

True  men  who  have  surmounted 

Life's  perils  and  its  dangers, 
To  sin  remaining  strangers. 


MAN  tries  himself  to  rate  in  vain, 
The  masses  this  right  always  holding,  — 

Whoe'er  will  not  suffer  their  enfolding 
Must  ever  at  the  door  remain. 


ALTHOUGH  the  rose  beside  the  way 
Half  choked  by  weeds  is  seen, 

From  every  blossom  that  unfolds 
Looks  forth  the  flowers'  queen. 

Howe'er  may  flaunt,  mid  blossoms  bright, 

The  nettle  her  display, 
She  still  remains  an  ugly  weed 

Forever  and  for  aye. 


FATE  has  toward  you  a  kind  intent, 

And  you  may  trust,  her  sentence  waiting 

Tis  only  when  you  grasp  the  reins 
That  she  begins  her  bitter  hating. 


IN  AN  ALBUM.  157 


IN   AN   ALBUM. 

TV  TANY  have  written  on  this  book's  fair  pages, 
*•**•     I  see  that  almost  every  one  is  full ; 
With  wishes  for  all  joy  to  thee,  love's  gages, 
The  tribute  of  each  friend  here  you  may  cull. 

While  one  doth  warn  you  in  life's  darkest  regions 
Of  storm  and  stress  an  upright  man  to  be, 

Another  hopes  that  God  His  angel  legions 

With  sunshine  and  rose-scents  may  send  to  thee. 

'Tis  well ;  for  all  these  things  thou  'It  have  occasion  ; 

Both  up  and  downward  Life  us  leads  in  part ; 
But  whether  joy  or  grief  should  be  thy  portion, 

Forever  keep,  young  friend,  thy  childlike  heart. 

If  this  thou  hast,  all  things  in  one  thus  wedding, 
A  heart  that 's  pure  will  give  pure  lips  and  hand ; 

Each  tear  of  sorrow  thou  'It  some  day  be  shedding 
God  will  arrange  as  pearls  on  thy  life's  band. 


158  POEMS. 


SOME   DAY. 

COME  day  this  brain  with  thoughts  that  blaze  and 
^  smoulder, 

Which  oft  hath  pondered  many  an  hour  lone, 
In  earth's  dark  breast,  so  bitter  cold,  will  moulder, 

And  every  care  will  then  be  past  and  gone. 

These  hands  of  mine,  which  now  are  hotly  burning, 
These  feet  of  mine,  which  now  so  sorely  ache, 

Will  then  at  last,  from  all  earth's  labor  turning, 
Soon  find  thfe  time  a  long,  long  rest  to  take. 

Yet  still  my  heart,  with  all  its  ardor  glowing, 
Will  ne'er  consumed  to  dust  and  ashes  be ; 

Forever  from  it  fresh  love  will  be  flowing, 
And  like  a  star,  beloved,  shine  on  thee  ! 


THE    VILLAGE  HOSPITAL.  159 


THE  VILLAGE   HOSPITAL. 


by  the  churchyard,  in  narrow  vale, 
^     Far,  far  from  rich  men's  farms  abundant, 
Illumed  by  the  sun's  last  ray  so  pale, 
The  village  hospital  we  hail, 

Which  walking  corpses  do  tenant. 

Well-nigh  to  earth  doth  the  roof  extend  ; 

Light  through  dim  windows  is  stealing  ; 
When  the  larks'  matin  songs  to  heav'n  ascend, 
From  the  chambers  so  close  and  narrow  blend 

Such  piteous  tears  and  appealing. 

And  within  —  O  Pity,  hold  e'en  thy  breath  !  — 

The  poorest  of  poor  people  here  lie. 
In  soul  and  in  body  sick  unto  death, 
Each  in  his  heart's  depths  the  same  prayer  hath 
"  Our  Father,  upon  us  have  mercy." 

Around,  wherever  the  eye  doth  rest, 

Corruption,  moans,  suffering  cureless  : 
I  thought  myself  no  more  on  earth  a  guest, 
As  to  this  dark  gulf  of  woe  I  pressed,  — 
A  sea  of  tears,  surging  and  shoreless. 


l6o  POEMS. 

The  sun  had  set ;  but  as  on  I  went, 

My  way  through  the  dark  fields  keeping, 
Close  followed,  where'er  my  steps  I  bent, 
The  sufferers'  sighs  and  sad  lament : 
Long,  long  I  could  hear  their  weeping ! 


FULL.  l6l 


FULL. 

by  grave  and  cross  by  cross, 
^-*      Here  are  row  upon  row, 
Where,  in  my  heart's  garden  wide, 
Flowers  bright  I  oft  strow. 

But  amid  them  lay  one  space, 

For  a  long  time  left  free, 
Where,  upon  a  golden  bush, 

My  dear  love  might  throned  be. 

But  to-day  the  tempest  fierce 
Hath  with  chilling  blast  come. 

Tearless  have  I  now  borne  forth 
Love  unto  its  last  home. 

Tremble  not,  thou  feeble  hand, 

Coward  heart  upholding ; 
Firmly  grasp  the  winding-sheet, 

Thy  life's  love  enfolding  ! 

Dig  thou  deep,  —  then  will  no  ear 

Catch  the  low  lamenting, 
Which  might  other  sleepers  rouse. 

Their  repose  preventing. 


1 62  POEMS. 

Slumber  there,  O  love  and  joy  ! 

Hoot  on,  boding  horned  owl ! 
Henceforth  I  shall  shrink  no  more,  — 

All  the  rows  are  now  full. 


REFUGE.  163 


REFUGE. 

rPO  Heav'n  I  've  raised  my  cries  appealing, 
•*•      To  earth  I  've  pleaded  in  despair,  — 
Before  the  altar's  steps,  low  kneeling, 

Have  poured  forth  yearning,  ardent  prayer. 

"  Have  pity,"  cried  I,  the  woods  pacing, 
"  And  cool  the  pain  of  this  fierce  smart !  " 

The  cliff  with  slender  arms  embracing 
I  clasped,  mid  weeping,  to  my  heart. 

Thus,  my  woe  consolation  mocking, 
From  place  to  place  I  wandered  on, 

Till  in  my  chamber  myself  locking, 
Found  comfort  in  God's  word  alone. 

At  last  the  lesson  I  am  learning,  — 

Grief  hallows  those  who  Ve  its  path  trod  ; 

And  though  joy's  dead,  past  all  returning, 
Know  naught  can  part  me  from  my  God  ! 


1 64  POEMS. 


THE   LEAVES  ARE   FALLING. 

rPHE  leaves  are  falling,  so  soft  and  light, 
•*•      The  mocking   wind  has  breathed   on  them  its 

blight ; 

The  bare,  brown  boughs  are  sadly  mourning 
The  guests  their  faith  to  them  thus  spurning, 
And  all  the  summer  fragrance  and  bloom 
Finds  in  one  chill  November  night  its  doom. 
Oh,  grief  far  beyond  all  measure  ! 
It  is  the  ever-unchanging  tale,  — 
After  May's  roses  comes  winter's  veil. 
The  leaves  are  falling  —  all 's  past,  we  wail. 

The  leaves  are  falling  !  scarce  true  doth  seem 
That  faded  so  soon  my  sunny  dream ; 
Command  to  part  Fate's  hand  was  signing, 
Which  we  must  bear  without  repining. 
In  vain  did  yearning  long,  long  seek  the  way,  — 
All  paths  were  effaced,  the  heavens  were  gray. 
Oh,  why  so  many  tears  weeping  ? 
They  never  the  path  to  joy  will  show ! 
It  sleeps  far  down  in  the  cool  house  low ; 
The  leaves  are  falling  !  all 's  o'er,  we  know. 


/  HAVE  SEEN.  165 


I   HAVE   SEEN. 

T  'VE  seen  the  delicate  golden-haired  child 
A     Unto  a  crazy  old  fool  chains  uniting ; 
She  gentle  and  soft  as  the  spring  breeze  mild, 

And  he  a  north  wind,  with  his  gray  locks  frighting. 

The  good  and  virtuous  wife  have  I  seen, 
On  bed  of  fair  flowers  her  body  finding ; 

The  blossoms  o'er  her  dear  form  wove  a  screen, 
Which  chains  so  young  to  ice  and  snow  were  binding. 

Her  every  feature  spoke  of  secret  woe, 
Yet  on  her  brow  was  purity  still  dreaming ; 

Thus  frost  doth  often,  e'en  mid  springtide  glow, 
Kill  in  one  night  the  rosebud  brightest  seeming. 

The  tears  sprung  burning  hot  to  all  our  eyes, 
But  mine  from  her  pale  lips  could  not  be  riven  • 

To  me  she  seemed  a  lamb  of  sacrifice, 

Unto  the  yawning  jaws  of  hell  thus  driven. 

The  gray-haired  dolt,  't  is  true,  wailed  and  tears  shed, 
The  while,  in  secret,  groups  of  young  girls  watching, 

Whence  he,  perchance  ere  three  short  months   had 

sped, 
Might  have  the  joy  of  one  more  sweet  flow'r  snatching. 


1 66  POEMS. 


THE   MAID-SERVANT  IN  MOURNING. 


^pHEY  laugh  at  me  because,  a  servant-maid, 
•*•      For  him  best  loved  I  'm  wearing  mourning, 
Because  at  night,  when  no  one  needs  me, 
Weeping  his  death,  I  'm  sleepless  turning. 

The  many  patches  on  my  old  black  gown 

Occasion  give  for  merry  jesting ; 
What  do  I  care  for  garments  fine  ? 

My  heart  my  grief  is  manifesting. 


They  chide  the  slight  trembling  of  my  hand,  — 
It  moves  less  quickly,  orders  taking ; 

If  they  but  knew  how,  far  from  her  home, 
The  poor  deserted  child's  heart 's  aching. 

They  often  lifted  their  dog  in  their  laps, 

And  his  ails  commiserated, 
While  they  laughed  to  scorn  the  woe  in  my  soul 

By  God  Himself  created. 


FREE.  167 


FREE. 

T  BEAR  a  joy,  a  lofty  joy, 
•*•    Within  my  heart,  oft  aching  ; 
No  fear  doth  ever  it  alloy, 
When  thoughts  free  flight  are  taking. 

They  flutter  like  the  birds,  while  swings 
Their  flight  throughout  earth  gleaming, 

And  bear  upon  their  dainty  wings 
The  sweetest  of  all  dreaming. 

They  mock  at  doors  and  bars  and  bolts, 
And  all  the  blows  Fate  looses ; 

My  merry  little  choir  of  thoughts 
Can  love  whate'er  it  chooses. 

And  though  my  feet  through  life  are  led 
Down  poverty's  bare  pathway, 

My  merry  band  of  thoughts  will  tread 
The  street  of  highest  beauty. 


1 68  POEMS. 


MY  LIFE. 

A  LL  my  life  long  I  Ve  wandered  on  so  sadly, 
^~*-     For  love  and  joy  in  childhood  'gan  my  quest, 
Like  butterflies  I  saw  them  flit  before  me, 

Which  now  and  then  upon  a  flower  rest ; 
They  lured  me  on  till  evening  shades  came  gliding, 

But  when  the  mists  rose  to  the  mountain's  brow, 
Downward  they  sank,  within  the  blossoms'  hiding, 

While  my  hand  only  grasped  the  thorny  bough. 

Lying  too  weary  e'en  to  stir  a  finger, 

Prone  on  the  turf,  with  the  chill  hoar-frost  wet, 
Again  the  lovely  creatures  hover,  linger, 

But  none  upon  the  flowers  have  settled  yet. 
Higher  they  soar  and  higher,  upward  still,  then 

Vanish  forever  from  my  tearful  eyes ; 
Slowly  the  leaves  fall  from  the  churchyard  linden, 

Whispering  low  :  Joy  dwells  beyond  the  skies  ! 


A    CHILD  IS  WEEPING.  l6g 


A  CHILD   IS  WEEPING. 

"1 1 7"HAT  can  afflict  the  child  thus  weeping  ? 
*         It  sounds  so  passionate  and  sad ; 
Who  can  a  child  in  pain  be  keeping, 

Who  yet  no  touch  of  care  has  had? 
It  sits  there  in  the  scorching  sun, 

Upon  the  dusty  road,  alone. 

The  other  little  ones  have  all  gone, 
Amid  the  green  woods  gayly  range, 

Play  in  the  pathways,  moss  and  grass-grown, 
And  kisses,  jests,  and  talk  exchange. 

Not  e'en  a  single  thought  they  send 

To  this  poor  weeping  child,  their  friend. 

More  and  more  angry  grows  the  crying, 
Despair  doth  seize  the  little  heart ; 

It  grasps  the  stones  in  the  road  lying, 
And  beats  itself  to  feel  the  smart. 

Far  into  distance,  back  it  peers, 
But  nothing  sees  to  soothe  its  tears. 


I/O  POEMS. 

Its  temples  throb,  the  sun  is  glowing, 

The  little  child  so  weary  lies, 
Its  tears  are  now  more  slowly  flowing 

'Neath  the  red  lids  that  veil  its  eyes. 
Its  little  head  doth  now  droop  quite, 

Its  little  mouth  is  still  and  white. 

It  sleeps  —  one  more  sob,  yet  another, 
Then  calm,  deep  calm,  the  scene  broods  o'er 

Calls  from  the  woods  doth  echo  transfer, 
But  the  poor  child  hears  nothing  more. 

However  deep  may  be  its  grief, 
A  child  can  weep  itself  to  sleep. 


TO   THE  MOON.  171 


TO  THE  MOON. 

,  come,  fair  moonlight  that  I  love, 
Extending  thy  white  hand, 
Aud  weave  o'er  valley,  river,  grove, 

Thy  gleaming  silver  band. 
The  nixies  to  the  upper  air 

From  house  of  crystal  rise, 
And  wash  their  long  and  silken  hair 
Where  thy  soft  radiance  lies. 

Scarce  canst  thou  with  the  sun's  bright  glance 

In  ardent  love  looks  vie, 
Yet  doth  thy  noble  countenance 

Rare  beauty  glorify. 
Each  one  deep  in  thine  eyes  to  bask 

Would  gladly  with  thee  bide, 
And  all  our  hearts  do  closest  mask 

We  can  to  thee  confide. 

Petitions  thou  dost  ne'er  reveal, 

But,  list'ning  with  a  smile, 
From  house  to  house  doth  gently  steal, 

And  bring  sweet  rest  the  while. 


1 72  POEMS. 

Though  we  are  sleeping,  thou  dost  wake, 

In  smallest  room  dost  peer, 
And  wrapped  within  thy  mantle  take 

Glad  dreams  the  heart  to  cheer. 

And  so  upon  thee,  moonlight  pale, 

More  than  all  else  I  doat ; 
Calm,  pure,  the  sky  through  thou  dost  sail, 

As  in  a  silver  boat. 
And  when  draws  near  my  life's  last  eve, 

And  earthly  strife  is  o'er, 
Within  thy  skiff,  friend,  me  receive 

And  bear  to  Heav'n's  shore. 


MY  HEART.  1/3 


MY   HEART. 

TV  /f  Y  heart  is  strong  as  a  sturdy  oak, 

•*•*        Its  branches  and  boughs  gnarled  extending, 

On  sunlit  space  aye  fixed  is  its  look, 

And  it  knows  naught  of  bowing  or  bending. 

A  ship  so  proud  with  streamers  and  mast, 
It  sweeps  through  surges  loud  roaring, 

Yet  nor  rest  nor  peace  can  it  find,  till  at  last 
In  home's  haven  it  ceases  exploring. 

Too  often  my  heart  is  like  a  flint, 

So  cold,  stiff,  and  senseless  lying, 
But  e'en  one  blow  with  the  steel  imprint, 

Bright  sparks  and  flames  round  you  '11  be  flying. 

Yet  if  the  omnipotent  light  of  love 

To  subdue  it  hath  all  its  strength  given, 

'T  will  softer  e'en  than  melting  snow  prove, 
Or  oak  by  the  lightning  riven. 


1/4  POEMS. 


FOUND. 

TTOW  long,  how  long  for  thee  I  Ve  sought, 

•*"*•     Until  now  never  rinding  ! 

But  since  thy  word  hath  comfort  brought, 

On  my  wound  balm  't  is  binding. 
The  fiery  flush  of  joy's  first  thrill 

Through  all  my  being  's  glowing ; 
My  woe  has  fled,  want,  every  ill, 

My  bliss  full  health  bestowing. 

My  soul  doth  now  no  longer  rove ; 

Upon  thy  heart 't  is  resting, 
Sweeps  proudly  through  thy  sea  of  love, 

Knows  only  mirth  and  jesting. 
Within  thy  arms  it  falls  asleep, 

A  thousand  kisses  giving, 
Reflected  in  thine  eyes  so  deep 

As  't  were  in  sunshine  living. 

My  burning  thirst  is  now  appeased, 

My  boat  in  harbor 's  lying ; 
In  love's  cloak  wrapped,  all  suffering  eased, 

To  sleep  I  'm  joyous  flying. 


FOUND.  175 

Thou  mine,  I  thine  forevermore, 
What  grief  could  torture  me,  when 

Of  all  my  bliss  the  inmost  core 
In  thee  is  life,  soul,  heaven  ! 


1/6  POEMS. 


IN  THE  FOREST. 

TT71THIN  the  forest  shades  to  live  and  die, 
^*  Oh,  fair  fate  sent ! 

The  flowers  our  bed,  the  soft  green  grass  our  grave 
And  monument. 

Bright  dragon-flies  gleam  through  the  solemn  dusk 

Like  precious  gems, 
And  ivy  twines  about  the  lofty  elms 

Its  clasping  stems. 

The  tree  tops  rustling  in  the  evening  breeze 

Sweet  songs  sing  low, 
And  from  the  lofty  boughs  the  dew-drops  wet 

Leafage  below. 

How  blest  to  lie  there  shut  in  sweet  repose, 

From  sorrow  deep, 
And  with  closed  lids,  enwrapped  in  happy  dreams, 

Forever  sleep  ! 


HOMELESS.  177 


HOMELESS. 

T  LAY  upon  my  mother's  breast, 

In  life,  a  single  hour  alone ; 
Ah,  I  should  be  divinely  blest 

Could  I  but  hear  her  voice's  tone. 
But  in  the  grave  by  Death's  hand  hurled, 

Her  love  for  me  in  her  heart  bearing, 
She  left  me  lonely  in  the  world, 

The  world  of  sorrow,  pain,  despairing. 

My  father  blind,  my  mother  dead, 

The  joys  of  home  lost  evermore, 
When  the  child  tears  of  longing  shed, 

For  folly  scolded  o'er  and  o'er, 
No  doubt  the  beads  that  sparkling  gleam 

Youth  drained  from  Pleasure's  cup  o'erflovving, 
Yet  my  heart  never  ceased  to  dream 

Of  happiness  all  radiant  glowing. 

E'en  though  I  were  the  prodigal, 

And  had  my  wealth  with  others  squandered, 
I  still  would  hear  a  sweet  voice  call 

And  turn  my  steps  repentant  homeward, 


POEMS. 

Would  fall  before  my  father's  feet, 

Then,  humbly  to  my  mother  kneeling, 

My  home  again  with  rapture  greet, 
Feeling  their  kiss  my  pardon  sealing. 

Now,  like  a  leaf  borne  on  the  wind, 

Amid  the  world's  dense  concourse  straying, 
There 's  not  a  single  soul  I  find 

For  me,  old  bachelor,  love  displaying. 
Who  '11  bring  my  sore  heart  comfort  now  ? 

Why  hath  not  Friendship  my  hands  taken  ? 
Oh,  Mother  dear,  why,  why  hast  thou 

So  early  thy  poor  child  forsaken  ? 


THOU  AND  I.  179 


THOU  AND  I. 

'"THOU  movest  onward  with  drooping  head, 
*      Thy  hopeless  eyes  no  joy  perceiving ; 
But  I  walk  with  light,  unfettered  tread,  — 
Of  what  avail  is  our  grieving  ? 

'T  is  true  that  Fate  hath  forced  us  to  part, 
That  our  plans  are  all  unavailing ; 

Yet  still,  however  the  wound  may  smart, 
My  eyes  will  sparkle,  unquailing. 

Erect,  unbending,  my  head  I  '11  hold  ; 

Not  e'en  for  a  false  love  will  I  sigh. 
All  do  not  dig  for  diamonds  and  gold, 

E'en  fragments  can  make  some  happy  ! 


ISO  POEMS. 


FOR  MY  CHILD. 

I. 

"COR  thee,  my  child,  oft  I  lie  waking, 
•*•       For  thy  dear  sake  till  late  at  night, 
To  grant  thy  ev'ry  wish  plans  making, 

To  see  thy  bright  eyes'  laughing  light. 
E'en  though  my  feet  are  often  weary, 

And  my  day's  work  is  often  hard, 
If  but  thy  face  comes  to  my  mem'ry, 

No  pain  or  grief  do  I  regard. 

Thank  God  !  that  one  within  my  keeping 

I  have,  who  '11  share  my  joy  and  woe. 
Grow  quickly,  I  shall  soon  be  steeping 

My  soul  in  thy  youth's  rosy  glow. 
How  closely  I  will  watch  and  cherish, 

Protect  thee,  dear,  from  cold  and  wind, 
Patiently  bearing  every  anguish, 

While  I  in  thee  a  good  child  find. 

Although  my  happiness  is  shattered, 
If  but  thy  sun  shines  clear  and  fair, 

I  will  forget  Time's  snow-flakes  scattered 
Too  early  whitening  my  hair.  — 


FOR  MY  CHILD.  l8l 

Rich  gifts  of  heart  and  mind  thy  dower, 

And  gentle  as  May  breezes  mild, 
Unfold  thy  petals,  human  flower : 

I  pray  for  thee  alone,  my  child. 


II. 


On  pillows  snow-white,  in  a  narrow  chest, 

Sleep  now  forever,  my  darling,  rest, 
Little  one,  in  God's  keeping  ! 

Thine  eyes  thou  hast  closed  for  the  long,  endless 

dream, 
Peacefully  slumb'ring,  scarce  real  doth  it  seem, 

As  I  gaze  at  thee,  weeping. 

Dolls  and  all  little  books  hither  bring, 

Both  loved  far,  far  beyond  anything, 
By  my  darling,  now  sleeping  ; 

One  more  kiss,  then  lower  the  coffin, 
Deeper  and  deeper  the  dark  grave  in  — 

Desolate  by  it  I  'm  weeping. 


1 82  POEMS. 


PARTED. 

though  vales  and  mounts  may  sever, 
And  each  all  tears  must  shed  alone, 
Although  in  life  we  may  meet  never, 

Yet  shall  we  always  be  as  one. 
The  mind  a  bridge  is  aye  providing, 

On  which  we  two  may  often  meet ; 
I  will  not  always  Fate  be  chiding, 
Because  hope  lacks  fulfilment  sweet. 

An  angel  to  and  fro  is  flitting, 

And  will  to  thee  my  greeting  bear, 
Unto  thy  heart  his  words  admitting, 

May  they  for  thy  soul  rest  prepare  ! 
And  I,  whene'er  I  feel  thy  greeting, 

Will  think  myself  in  Paradise, 
From  which  the  world's  cold,  cruel  dealing 

Thrust  me,  and  now  return  denies. 

One  sky  above  its  dome  is  raising, 

From  which  one  sun  doth  shed  its  light ; 

With  doubting  hearts  we  're  ever  gazing 
To  one  moon's  disk,  so  silver  bright. 


PARTED.  183 

The  soft  breeze  strokes  our  cheeks,  oft  burning 

As  if  a  messenger  \  would  be, 
It  cools  our  ardent,  hopeless  yearning  — 

But  ever  walk  alone  must  we. 

Though  parted,  bound  by  ties  enduring, 

We  always  meet  each  other's  eyes, 
And  each,  for  other  peace  securing, 

Would  die,  like  leaf  whirled  'neath  the  skies. 
Be  brave ;  our  souls  from  this  husk  freeing, 

Which  parts  us  here,  to  our  great  woe, 
Soon  each  the  other  will  be  seeing 

Where  immortality  we  know. 


1 84  POEMS. 


AT  PARTING. 

C^  1VE  me  one  more  clasp  of  thy  hand, 

^     Then  let  this  be  our  parting  ! 

Why  shouldst  thou  fan,  with  hatred's  brand, 

The  flames  from  my  woe  darting? 
Thou  hast  no  faith  in  my  true  love, 

Wert  playing  a  game  clever  — 
In  God's  name  go  j  my  sun  above 

Thou  wert,  and  wilt  be  ever. 

In  God's  name  !    And  I  hope  this  earth 

A  truer  heart  may  offer  — 
Which  will  to  light  of  faith  give  birth, 

Guard  thee  from  turning  scoffer. 
And  when  thou  that  true  heart  doth  gain, 

Oh,  send  to  me  some  message ; 
Then  will  the  burden  of  my  pain 

No  more  my  sad  soul  ravage. 


TO  A   RICH  MAN.  185 


TO  A  RICH   MAN. 

A  RT  thou,  poor  rich  man,  happiness  pursuing  ? 
^*     Then  need'st  thou  only  go  into  the  street, 
And,  from  the  homes  of  poverty  there  viewing, 

Gift  of  a  child  as  precious  pledge  entreat. 
Think  of  the  Saviour's  earnest,  ardent  pleading, 

How  fondly  little  children  He  caressed, 
For  thee,  too,  He  has  suffered,  mocked  and  bleeding, 

Oh,  take  His  little  lamb  unto  thy  breast. 

Not  only  food  and  drink  and  earthly  ofFring 

Are  things  well  pleasing  in  the  Master's  sight : 
Far  better  gifts  there  are,  which  cost  us  nothing ; 

Make  these  thy  aim,  and  strive  with  all  thy  might ! 
Give  in  the  ocean,  vast  and  never  empty, 

Of  love  to  this  child  e'en  a  single  dip  ; 
Else  will  the  world  to  him  be  lone  and  dreary, 

And  his  soul  ever  thirst  for  fellowship. 

In  love  do  thou,  a  pair  of  small  hands  holding, 
Teach  them  to  be  of  service  to  mankind, 

In  love  alone  his  heart  to  virtue  moulding, 
In  love  the  child  a  place  in  thy  house  find. 


1 86  POEMS. 

Then  treasures  infinite  within  thy  borders 

Thou  'It  gain,  and  thy  foes'  power  to  seize  mayst 
scorn, 

While  with  the  fairest  of  victories'  orders 

Thy  God  will  then  some  day  thy  breast  adorn. 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER. 


TO    MY    DAUGHTER    ON    HER 
CONFIRMATION   DAY. 


M- 


'  Y  child,  be  good ! 

To  everyone  whom  thouin  life  art  meeting, 
Extend  thy  hands  with  tender,  loving  greeting, 
Always  rememb'ring  he  is  of  Christ's  blood. 
My  child,  be  good  ! 

My  child,  be  pure  ! 

Like  dew,  which  ere  by  dust  contaminated, 
At  dawn  for  the  young  meads  jewels  created, 
Sun  kissed,  its  sparkling  doth  like  gems  allure. 

My  child,  be  pure  ! 

My  child,  be  true  ! 

Ne'er  in  thy  soul  let  falsehood's  stain  come  stealing  ; 
Confess  thy  faults,  no  error  e'er  concealing ; 
Anguish  it  will  avert,  and  peril,  too. 

My  child,  be  true  ! 

My  child,  be  mild  ! 

Though  from  a  thousand  rods  blows  should  be  raining, 
Submit  with  patience,  bear  without  complaining ; 
Gaze  at  Our  Saviour's  image,  so  reviled. 

My  child,  be  mild  ! 


1 88  POEMS. 

My  child,  be  strong  ! 

Whene'er  temptation  's  from  the  right  path  luring, 
If  faith  thy  hands  with  firm  hold  are  securing, 
It  will  defend,  as  bark  pith  covers  long. 

My  child,  be  strong  ! 

Child,  be  devout ! 

Thou  shouldst  in  worship  mute  be  ever  bending, 
That  when  the  Father's  voice  His  call  is  sending, 
At  any  hour,  "  I  come,  Lord !  "  mayst  cry  out. 

Child,  be  devout ! 


M  Y  HAPPINESS.  1 89 


MY  HAPPINESS. 


"1 1 7 HERE  shall  I  take  my  love?     I  'm  weary, 

Where  rest  obtain? 
The  day  was  cold,  the  evening  's  dreary, 

No  house  I  '11  gain  — 
In  barren  fields,  through  darkness  pressing, 

No  one  is  near ; 
Where  with  my  love  I  'm  rest  possessing 

Must  not  be  here. 


What  shall  I  do  with  my  love,  weighing 

So  heavily? 
Shall  I  it  from  the  world  conveying 

Sink  in  the  sea? 
But  then  't  would  sleep  in  depths  receiving 

No  sunshine  fair ; 
So  I  must  therefore,  my  love  leaving, 

Consign  elsewhere. 

Where  then  shall  I  with  love  be  driven  ? 

To  yonder  hearth  ? 
Ay,  there  unto  the  greatest  love  is  given 

Its  righteous  worth  ; 


190 


POEMS. 


And  as,  from  store  of  fagots  feeding 

Piece  after  piece, 
For  others'  joys,  not  mine,  aye  pleading, 

Find  happiness ! 


AN  AUTUMN  NIGHT.  191 


AN  AUTUMN   NIGHT. 

A  UTUMN  night,  in  moonlight  lying, 
•*"*•     Solemn,  pallid,  sacred  night, 
Thy  cool  lips,  so  softly  sighing, 

Summer's  eyes  shut  with  touch  light. 

Silver  cloudlets,  elfin  veiling, 
Follow  wave  of  thy  white  hand ; 

Thousand  wishes,  never  failing, 
Bear  they  into  dreams'  fair  land. 

Peace  proclaiming,  peace  aye  bringing, 

Ent'ring  ev'ry  little  room, 
Where'er  anguish  souls  is  wringing, 

Bearing  healing,  thou  dost  come. 

Lost  in  dreams,  by  dreams  led  captive, 

Lean  I  weary  at  the  door ; 
When  wilt  thou,  night  calm  and  pensive, 

Peace  to  me  for  aye  restore  ? 


IQ2  POEMS. 


THY  PICTURE. 

me  thy  picture 's  dearer  far 
Than  aught  within  earth's  confines ; 
The  sky  has  lost  its  brightest  star 
Which  now  within  thine  eyes  shines. 

There 's  naught  that  in  this  world  I  love, 
More  than  those  eyes,  here  glowing ; 

No  deeper  blue  hath  sky  above, 
More  peace  no  heav'n's  bestowing. 

Thy  picture  is  so  dear,  so  dear, 

More  cherished  every  hour ; 
When  night  doth  through  the  window  peer, 

O'er  my  dreams  rules  its  power. 

Still  every  glance  doth  on  thee  wait, 

To  guard  from  ill  essaying ; 
When  open  springs  dawn's  roseate  gate, 

Before  it  I  am  praying. 

So  dear  thy  pictured  counterpart, 
Thy  sweet  soul's  pureness  keeping, 

That  when  I  think  how  far  thou  art, 
Most  bitter  is  my  weeping. 


TO    THE  SZESZUPPE.  193 


TO  THE   SZESZUPPE.1 

VI  7"AVES,  where  are  ye  going 

*          With  crowns  of  foam  ? 
Your  swift  restless  flowing 

Sweeps  far  from  home. 
I  watch  ye  in  joyance 

Here  flit  and  there  ; 
Away  in  the  distance 

Ye  now  must  fare. 

Here  might  ye  be  twining 

Fair  rosebuds  thrown, 
In  struggle  fierce  joining 

Round  moss-grown  stone ; 
But  where  thy  course  farther 

Westward  doth  go, 
Thy  shores  thick  reeds  gather 

And  lower  grow. 

Now  murmur  ye  faintly 

O'er  yellow  sand 
Sad  music,  whose  plaint  we 

Ne'er  understand. 

1  A  river  near  the  home  of  the  poetess. 


194  POEMS. 


Low  yearning  tones  creeping 
Sigh  soft  through  the  reeds,  — 

Your  song,  amid  weeping, 
For  liberty  pleads. 


TO  MY  ERICH.  195 


TO  MY  ERICH. 

JOIN  not  the  ranks  of  poets,  my  son, 
Heed  thou  my  warning  ! 
If  the  Muse's  form  seeks  thee  to  snare, 
Turn  from  her,  scorning. 

If  thou  dost  give  her  thy  lips  to  kiss, 

Thou  'rt  lost  forever ; 
Fool  among  fools  then  rated  to  be 

Thou  wilt  cease  never. 

Into  all  depths  of  sorrow  and  joy 

Thou  must  make  entry ; 
But  ne'er  will  she  ask,  when  thou  wearied  dost  lie, 

If  thou  art  hungry. 

E'en  as  a  Fata  Morgana  lures, 

Delusions  bearing, 
Dying  thou  'It  lift  thy  hands  to  her, 

Allegiance  swearing. 

And  shouldst  thou,  scaling  the  steep,  ascend, 

That  sphere  attaining, 
Through  bone  and  marrow  swiftly  will  fly 

Critics'  spears  raining. 


196  POEMS. 

If  from  thy  brow  thou  dost  tear  the  fair  wreath, 

Thy  prize  examine, 
The  garland  of  laurel  thou  'st  gained,  my  son, 

Tears  and  blood  both  twine. 


VINDICA  TION.  1 97 


VINDICATION. 

,  say  ye  not  always,  the  North-land  is  poor, 
In  South-land  alone  bloom  the  roses, 
And  softer  is  there  each  maid's  arm  to  allure ; 
Whoe'er  it  embraces,  his  sorrow  'twill  cure, 
In  such  loving  clasp  it  reposes. 

Perchance  all  the  stars  there  more  brightly  may  shine, 

In  nights  balmy  odors  exhaling, 

Yet  e'en  though  this  radiance  their  eyes  should  en- 
shrine, 

We  maids  of  the  North  to  no  envy  '11  incline  ; 
It  gleams  in  our  braids,  never  failing. 

If  clasp  of  our  arms  less  tender  doth  prove, 

Round  Germans,  proud  necks  as  it  twines,  these 

Our  hearts  will  aye  throb  with  a  leal  faith  and  love, 
Our  hearts,  whose  fidelity  naught  e'er  can  move, 

Like  hue  of  our  evergreen  pine-trees. 


198  POEMS. 


THE   BUTTERFLY. 

A    BUTTERFLY  splendid 
**•     Hovered,  in  autumn, 
Outside  my  window, 
Now  up  and  now  down. 

Behind  its  glass  panes 
Roses,  still  blooming, 

With  smiling  lips  lured 
Poor  lover  coming. 

He  saw  not  the  hoar-frost's 

Arrows  so  fatal ; 
He  saw  but  the  red  glow 

On  rose  lips  magical. 

His  struggles  were  futile 
Lips  so  sweet  to  gain ; 

His  kisses  fell  only 
On  cold  window-pane. 

At  morning  I  found  him 
Stiff,  dead  on  the  sill. 

Fool 's  he  who  for  kisses 
Out  of  reach  strives  still. 


TO  MY  READERS.  199 


TO   MY  READERS. 

A  S  guerdon  for  my  songs,  to  me  you  've  given 
•^    This  fresh  and  beautiful  green  laurel  bough. 
With  joy  I  Ve  pressed  it  to  my  heart,  and  striven 

To  voice  the  thanks  which  my  soul's  depths  fill  now. 
But  would  ye  make  my  happiness  o'erflowing, 

Give  me  the  little  flower  which  in  each  spot 
Of  all  our  German  soil  is  thickly  growing ; 

It  bears  the  simple  name  :  "  Forget  me  not." 


2OO  POEMS. 


FIRST  LOVE. 

T  OVE  so  fair  in  vernal  beauty, 

•^     Dim  grow  my  eyes  when  on  thee  I  brood ; 

Like  a  dove  with  plumage  snowy, 

Which  is  driven  through  the  wood. 
Thou  art  like  matin  bells  which  native  breezes  waft, 

Pure  as  first  refreshing  draught  in  Eden  quaffed. 

Fragrance  of  that  blue  flower  wondrous, 
Which  our  God  on  His  own  bosom  wears, 

Altar  saint,  to  which  the  tim'rous 
Sinner  eyes  to  lift  ne'er  dares, 

Stony  hearts  thou  bring'st  from  out  their  cold  repose ; 
Smiled  away  thou  canst  not  be,  as  men  suppose. 

Ev'ry  heart  holds  thee  in  memory, 

Star-besprinkled,  tender  flush  of  dawn, 
Though  rich  life  from  out  its  treas'ry 

Thousand  radiant  suns  hath  drawn. 
Ever  unto  us  our  fairest  dream  thou  'It  be, 

Flower  that  first  bloomed  upon  our  young  life's  tree. 


THE  LAST  SONG.  2OI 


THE   LAST  SONG. 

A    SONG  of  my  creating, 
**•     A  wondrous  song  I  'd  sing, 
Which  like  the  fragrant  breeze  of  May 

O'er  earth  its  flight  would  wing. 
From  North  to  South,  from  East  to  West, 

A  way  break  in  a  trice, 
And  give  to  all  mankind  sweet  rest, 

Joy,  Peace,  and  Paradise. 

Unto  the  sick  and  dying 

Sweet  cordial  it  should  bring, 
The  sound  of  its  soft  pinion's  stroke 

Still  grief  and  suffering. 
Mid  clank  of  arms  and  conflict  hot 

Fan  courage  to  a  flame ; 
For  woe  men  comprehended  not 

Comfort  it  should  proclaim. 

But  where'er  sin  is  lurking 

With  cruel  serpent  e'e, 
To  hurricane  swiftly  rising, 

'T  will  sweep  it  in  the  sea. 


2O2  POEMS. 

On  every  chink  in  house  of  pain 

A  cooling  balm  distil, 
The  temple  cleanse  from  ev'ry  stain, 

And  every  want  fulfil. 

And  if  this  song  succeeded, 

Nor  fame  nor  gold  to  gain 
I  'd  wish,  but  throw  my  lyre  down 

And  sing  no  other  strain. 
Unto  the  pine  woods  stealing, 

Lay  me  for  death's  repose 
To  no  one  e'er  revealing 

Who  did  this  song  compose. 


THE  RETURN  HOME.  2O$ 


THE  RETURN   HOME. 

TV/T  OTHER,  once  more  set  the  bench  by  the  hearth, 
^^     The  olden  place  now  possessing, 
Sit  by  it  there,  and  again  let  your  hand 
Over  my  hair  pass,  with  touch  caressing. 

In  thy  lap  I  fain  my  head  would  lay,  — 
Place  of  rest,  to  sweet  repose  hushing ! 

How  far  art  thou,  world,  now,  with  all  thy  woe, 
Thy  burdens  with  pressure  crushing  ! 

Kiss  thou  my  forehead,  Jt  is  burning  with  pain  ; 

The  lips  of  no  lass  e'er  has  pressed  it. 
Too  sacred  the  place  whereon  thine  did  rest 

Profane  touch  hath  never  possessed  it. 

Now,  mother  dear,  sing,  oh,  sing  me  to  sleep ; 

Restore  my  lost  faith  by  thy  kindness. 
They  've  ta'en  from  me  all  things  except  thy  love ; 

To  rob  me  of  that  the  world  's  powerless. 


204  POEMS. 


TO   LITERARY   CRITICISM. 
I. 

TT  lies  in  the  dust,  my  fair  jewel  bright, 
-*•  I  bore  with  such  love  in  my  bosom ; 
I  hear  how  the  throng  in  fierce  taunts  unite, 

The  rattling  scales  sound  an  alarum. 
All  things  I  most  precious  held  are  now  crushed 
Though  tears  while  creating  them  o'er  them  gushed, 
And  while  from  my  heart's  depths  tearing 
Them,  thousand  pangs  I  was  bearing. 

What  God  himself  in  my  bosom  hath  placed 

With  sacred  inspiration's  power, 
What  like  a  child  I  have  cherished,  embraced, 

I  must  now  see  'neath  scourges  cower  ! 
What  hath  pleased  many  a  sensitive  heart 
Is  scattered  now  on  the  winds  far  apart, 
Like  autumn  leaves  from  the  trees  streaming,  — 
My  loving,  my  thinking,  my  dreaming. 

Believe  me,  ye  band  so  heartless  and  cold, 
I  shall  not  die  of  my  pain  and  grieving ; 

The  wings  ye  '11  ne'er  break  of  the  eagle  bold,  — 
At  most  but  those  of  the  crow  so  thieving. 


TO  LITERARY  CRITICISM.  2O$ 

My  book  is  the  sunshine  eternally  fair, 
Forth  from  my  heart  leaping  like  fountain  in  air. 
From  it  for  all  ages  singing, 
To  eternity  my  way  winging. 


II. 

Men,  I  pray  ye,  cease  my  peace  disturbing  ! 

Wrong  have  I  done  to  no  one  of  ye  all ; 
Grudge  me  not  of  my  own  thoughts  the  possession, 

Gift  which  to  me  from  the  Father  did  fall. 

Would  ye  them  rend  in  a  thousand  fragments, 
Drag  them  through  mire,  I  will  make  no  ado ; 

Fairer  ones  still  in  a  trice  will  again  rise 

From  crystal  house,  which  my  soul  shineth  through. 

Take  what  ye  will !     But  outside  remaining, 
Break  not  the  holy  deep  peace  of  the  woods ; 

I  yield  ye  all  things  —  renown,  love,  and  honor  — 
Grant  me  but  one,  my  woe  deep  as  seas'  floods  ! 


2Q6  POEMS. 


LOCK  WHATSOE'ER  MOVES  THEE. 

T  OCK  whatsoe'er  moves  thee 

Within  thy  heart's  close  shrine, 
And  give  to  God  alone 
That  little  key  of  thine. 

Discuss  with  Him  alone 

Whatever  may  befall  ; 
He  is  the  only  friend 

Who  understandeth  all. 


WEARY.  2O7 


WEARY. 

YI 7HAT  aileth  thee,  O  red  rose  blushing, 

'  '       That  thou  dost  feel  such  sudden  shame  ? 
Dost  think  of  butterfly's  love  gushing, 
His  splendid  colors  bright  as  flame 
He  '11  kiss  the  red  lips  of  another  fair ; 
Thou  'It  fade,  death-stricken  by  despair. 

The  shimm'ring  dragon-fly  is  sleeping, 
By  gentle  night-breeze  lulled  to  rest ; 

It  dreams  of  sunshine,  glad  waves  leaping, 
In  flow'r  leaf  curled  as  in  a  nest. 

Sigh  mid  the  shelt'ring  reeds  to  murmur  seems, 

I  am  so  weary  —  amid  its  dreams. 

I,  too,  am  weary,  —  joyous  would  I 
My  head  lay  down  for  my  last  rest. 

Could  I  persuade  the  clouds  above  me, 
How  gladly  I  would  homeward  press, 

On  their  soft  borders,  which  lightly  gleam, 

So  gently  lulled  to  the  endless  dream  ! 


2O8  POEMS. 


FATA  MORGANA. 

T  SEE  thee  in  the  water  clear, 
•*•     When  from  its  depths  doth  rise 
Thy  image,  as  an  angel  pure, 
And  slays  me  in  this  guise. 

Within  my  breast  I  see  thee  oft 

Upon  an  altar  stand  ; 
Before  it  lie  in  anguish  wild, 

And  death  would  fain  command. 

I  see  thee  in  the  rose's  pomp, 

In  snow-white  lily  leaf; 
'Gainst  them  my  burning  eyes  I  press, 

And  weep  out  all  my  grief. 

I  see  thy  face  in  every  star, 

In  floating  veil  of  mist ; 
In  morning's  dawn  and  sunset  glow 

Thy  semblance  doth  exist. 

I  see  thee  in  the  azure  sky, 
Moonlight  and  sunshine  hot ; 

I  see  thee  in  the  hour  of  death, 
And  yet  —  I  see  thee  not. 


HAPPINESS  WOULD  FAIN  CALL  MINE.     2OQ 


I    HAPPINESS  WOULD   FAIN   CALL  MINE. 

T  HAPPINESS  would  fain  call  mine  ; 

I  too,  love's  sunlight  knowing, 
Would  drink  the  pure,  delicious  wine 

From  Life's  great  fountain  flowing. 
My  lips  already  pressed  the  glass, 

I  seemed  quite  lost  in  dreaming, 
When,  with  shrill  sound,  it  broke,  alas  ! 
And  all  the  drink  divine  did  pass  — 

For  me  aye  wasted  —  streaming. 

And  happiness  did  once  draw  near, 

To  me  its  head  inclining ; 
Upon  me  fell  one  glance  so  dear, 

A  friend  my  heart  was  shrining. 
But  when  the  beautiful  blue  band 

I  was  to  that  heart  clasping, 
'T  was  snatched  swift  by  another's  hand, 
Who  wound  it  round  his  forehead,  and 

Retained  it  for  gaud  grasping. 

Now  happy  I  '11  not  seek  to  be, 

My  sorrow  is  far  dearer ; 
Alone  it  never  leaveth  me, 

Ne'er  passes,  but  draws  nearer. 
14 


2IO  POEMS. 

I  know  to  none  on  earthly  shore 

Is  happiness  full  given, 
And  therefore  I  will  close  my  door, 
That  hard-won  peace  from  me  no  more 

By  trespasser  '11  be  riven. 


AFTER   YEARS.  211 


AFTER  YEARS. 

TS  this  really  my  own  roof- tree, 
"*•  My  beloved  parents' home? 
Joyous  as  of  yore  the  swallows 

Darting  out  and  in  do  come. 
Fragrance  giving,  strews  the  linden 

Perfumed  blossoms  on  my  hair, 
And,  above,  the  azure  heaven 

Laughs  as  erst  in  sunlight  fair. 

All  things  lie  in  self-same  places, 

All  things  are  just  as  of  yore  ; 
On  the  gable  of  the  cottage 

Doves  are  cooing  as  before. 
Water  from  the  pipe  is  flowing 

Thirsty  wand'rers  to  relieve, 
And  to  flowers,  blossoms,  grass-blades 

Sacred  Sunday  peace  doth  cleave. 

Yet  to  me  all  things  seem  altered, 
As  by  burden  sore  oppressed  ; 

Closely  do  I  clasp  my  kindred, 
Almost  weeping,  to  my  breast. 


2 1 2  POEMS. 

Yes,  these  are  the  self-same  chambers, 
Fairyland  of  childhood's  frame, 

These  the  old  beloved  meadows  — 
I  alone  am  not  the  same. 


/  HA  VE  PR  A  YED.  2 1 3 


I  HAVE  PRAYED. 

'"PHAT  thou  mightst  happy  be,  I  once  did  pray ; 

But  now  thou  'rt  joy  possessing, 
Meseems,  amid  the  pangs  which  my  heart  slay, 
A  thousand  times  from  it  the  wish  must  stray, 
That  grief  again  was  thee  oppressing. 

'T  is  only  when  thou  'rt  wretched  that  thou  'rt  mine, 

Once  more  then  I  am  praying. 
Now,  when  Love's  golden  sun  doth  on  thee  shine, 
And  solitude  on  earth 's  no  longer  thine, 

My  steps  near  thee  can  ne'er  be  straying. 


214  POEMS. 


THE  RINGING  OF  THE  BELL. 

HPHE  day  was  closing  now,  after  its  fierce  contending ; 
A      The  ringing  of  a  bell  with  evening  breeze  was 

blending. 

The  soft  tones  seemed  to  utter  comfort,  grief  beguiling, 
As  if  unto  its  load  it  was  day  reconciling. 

My  hand  was  very  heavy ;  lines  which  labor  burrows 
Marked  it,  e'en  as  the  plough  the  earth's  green  bosom 

furrows. 

The  bell  drew  it  to  prayer,  with  magic  power  grasping ; 
Alas !  long,  long  ago  it  forgot  Christian  clasping. 

And  as  from  the  hard  brass  note  after  note  was  riven, 
As  from  the  lips  word  after  word  appealed  to  Heaven, 
As  from  my  weary  eyes  the  burning  tears  were  stealing, 
God's  knock  upon  my  heart  His  presence  was  revealing. 

And   slowly   from   within,   like    mists,    all    grief    was 

drifting ; 

Devoutly  once  again  my  eyes  to  Heaven  uplifting, 
Whence  angel  bands,  with  blessings,  ever  are  descending 
To  those  before  God's  throne  their  heads  in  rev'rence 

bending. 


THE  RINGING  OF  THE  BELL.     215 

The  last  note  of  the  bell  died  in  a  happy  Amen, 

The  angel  hosts  have  borne  it  on  their  wings  beyond 

ken. 

And  Amen,  Amen  rings  from  ev'ry  cloud's  red  flushing. 
I  thank  thee,  bell !  From  my  heart's  depths  my  prayers 

are  gushing. 


2i6  POEMS. 


BY  LOOKING  IN  THINE  EYES  I   SEE. 

BY  looking  in  thine  eyes  I  see 
Thou  hast  been  weeping  sore 
Although  thy  lashes  show  no  trace 
Of  any  tear-drops  more. 

Although  from  thy  proud  lips  thy  words 
Like  precious  pearls  have  rolled, 

And  thou  hast  painted  joy's  bright  hues 
In  sunlight's  tints  of  gold ; 

Though  thou  dost  hold  thy  curly  head 

As  if  no  weight  it  bore, 
By  looking  in  thine  eyes  I  see 

Thou  hast  been  weeping  sore. 


MY  WISH.  217 


MY  WISH. 

YT  7 HAT  I  would  wish  for  is  nor  praise  nor  fame, 
*  *       E'en  to  the  height  of  kingly  thrones  attaining ; 
Nor  shall  Love's  silent  sanctuary's  flame 
Bind  me,  with  links  of  roses  softly  chaining. 

For  Love,  alas  !  oft  builds  its  house  on  sand, 

Its  whispers  sweet  become  a  cry  of  anguish, 

It  leaves  a  thorny  robe  within  the  hand  — 

And  praise  and  fame  are  but  men's  whims  that  vanish. 

What  I  would  wish  for  is  a  fair  Spring  day, 

On  which  my  coffin  should  with  earth  be  covered ; 

In  azure  air  a  lark's  clear,  joyous  lay, 

While  o'er  my  pall  a  butterfly  light  hovered. 

No  weeping  or  lamenting,  no,  oh,  no  ! 

Ne'er  would  I  wish  to  have  such  useless  off 'ring  ; 

But  as  toward  their  homes  the  neighbors  go, 

Let  them  think  :  Good  was  she  we  've  been  burying. 


2 1 8  POEMS. 


OUR  WEAKNESS. 

"  NOWN  are  we  women  as  the  weaker  sex, 

The  fact  is  true,  and  thus  't  will  aye  remain. 
Happy  are  we  if,  in  earth's  record  book, 
As  faithful  mothers  we  can  write  a  name. 
Man  with  brows  decked  with  laurel  may  appear, 
We  find  our  joys  within  a  narrow  sphere. 

Known  are  we  women  as  the  weaker  sex, 
We  only  weep  the  while  men  fiercely  swear ; 
And  —  if  joy's  balance  wavers  —  ever  seek 
Our  refuge,  not  in  weapons,  but  in  prayer. 
We  do  but  bless,  though  false  to  us  men  prove, 
Ay,  women's  hearts  are  more  than  weak  in  love. 

What  will  to  man  his  strength  of  arm  avail, 
If  woman  points  him  not  to  virtue's  goal? 
Who  '11  save  him  amid  passion's  storm  and  stress, 
When  o'er  him  all  Life's  surges  fiercely  roll? 
Woman  alone  the  powers  of  hell  defies, 
Because  her  greatness  in  her  weakness  lies. 


LOST  HAPPINESS.  219 


LOST   HAPPINESS. 

YT 7TTH  happiness  its  precious  freight, 
*  *       Fair  Fortune's  barque  swept  by, 
Afar  I  saw  its  shining  state, 
Its  fairy  majesty. 

Its  course  the  helmsman  strove  to  stay, 

My  pulses  throbbed  apace, 
My  outstretched  hands  implored  delay, 

Then  —  vacant  was  its  place. 

Farther,  still  farther  o'er  the  tide, 

Swift  rushing  like  the  wind. 
And  now  the  road  I  sit  beside, 

Mine  eyes  tears  almost  blind. 


JOHANNA    AMBROSIUS. 

BY   HERMAN   GRIMM. 


the  newspapers,  Prof.  Karl  Weiss- 
Schrattenthal,  of  Pressburg,  became  acquainted 
with  the  poems  of  a  poor  peasant  woman  who  lives  in 
a  village  of  East  Prussia.  He  entered  into  communi- 
cation with  her,  and  printed  a  number  of  her  poems. 
The  first  edition  of  this  collection  appeared  at  Christ- 
mas, 1894 ;  early  in  March,  1895,  —  m  ^ess  than 
three  months,  that  is,  —  the  fourth  edition  was 
published. 

Johanna  Ambrosius  is  a  laboring  woman,  who  must 
work  hard  to  keep  the  household  from  getting  behind- 
hand. Her  poems,  which  she  writes  only  for  her  own 
solace,  arouse  my  surprise,  admiration,  and  hearty 
sympathy,  by  the  depth  of  their  insight  and  the  power 
of  their  utterance. 

Professor  SchrattenthaFs  preface  gives  us  further 
details  concerning  Johanna  Ambrosius,  whose  real 


222  JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS. 

name  is  Voigt,  that  of  her  parents  being  Ambrosius.  It 
is  unnecessary  to  repeat  these  details  here.  My  in- 
terest is  in  the  matter  and  form  of  her  poems,  in  her 
poetic  technique. 

Her  life  and  poems  may  aptly  be  compared  with 
those  of  Ada  Negri.  Ada  Negri  was  more  capable  of 
resistance,  and  became  known  earlier.  So  soon  as  we 
consider  these  two  women  historically,  we  must  cease 
to  speak  compassionately  of  their  misery.  Both  have 
completed  their  course  from  the  depth  to  the  height. 
Whence  came  their  noble  thoughts  ?  One  of  the  pas- 
sages, which  Karl  Schrattenthal  quotes  from  Johanna's 
letters,  says  :  "  When  I  write  a  song,  I  am  so  excited, 
so  ravished  from  the  world,  that  I  seem  to  myself  an 
utter  stranger."  This  sensation  overcomes  us  too  when 
we  read  many  of  her  verses.  Strong,  genuine  feeling 
speaks  in  them,  and  gives  these  poems  the  rank  of  in- 
dependent creations  of  the  human  mind.  We  say  to 
ourselves  :  Here  one  for  whom  the  world  had  no  place 
has  reached  a  planet  of  her  own,  in  lucid  heights,  where 
she  is  sole  monarch.  One  sweep  of  her  wings  bears 
the  poetess  aloft  to  this  self-created  new  kingdom. 
Viewed  thence,  all  the  sorrow  and  ugliness  of  life  as- 
sumes another  form  for  her.  Loss  is  changed  to  gain. 
The  way  in  which  Ada  Negri  and  Johanna  Ambrosius 
turn  unendurable  burdens  into  a  sense  of  deliverance 
is  so  strangely  alike  in  both  that  they  seem  to  be 
daughters  of  one  and  the  same  mother.  What  dis- 


JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS,  22$ 

tinguishes  them  are  chance  externals  of  nationality  and 
position. 

Ada  Negri  sprang  from  the  restless  mass  of  men 
who  throng  the  factories.  She  experienced  the  suffer- 
ings which  that  kind  of  misery  entails,  from  her  earli- 
est childhood.  The  roar  and  shriek  and  pound  of 
machinery  filled  her  ear.  Johanna  bowed  her  young 
back  to  work  in  the  unchanging  fields.  Northern 
pine  woods  surround  her  village,  never  rustling,  only 
sighing  when  the  wind  blows  through  their  branches. 
The  images  and  feelings  of  the  moment  are  lent  the 
force  and  vigor  of  something  aggressively  warlike  by 
the  impetuous  power  of  the  Italian.  In  Johanna 
Ambrosius  greater  intellectual  power  prevails,  and  the 
quiet  strength  of  a  German  soul.  Ada,  with  clenched 
fists,  bursts  straight  through  the  thicket  which  sur- 
rounds her ;  Johanna,  with  weary  feet,  seeks  a  prac- 
ticable path  in  the  selva  oscura  di  no  sir  a  vita.  But 
both  contrive  to  make  their  poems  nestle  in  our 
memories,  never  to  be  banished  thence. 

Both  women  are  filled  with  the  spirit  of  the  present. 
The  most  striking  sign  of  this  new  spirit,  which  I  have 
noted  in  later  years  as  an  element  still  penetrating 
the  world,  is  the  dislike,  aye,  the  inability  to  lose 
myself  in  exploration  of  the  human  beings  of  previous 
centuries  as  I  did  in  former  years.  All  that  pre- 
cedes the  beginning  of  this  century  has  ceased  to 
enthrall  me,  as  if  overcome  by  faintness.  Nor  am  I 


224  JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS. 

alone  in  this  experience ;  others  too,  in  confidential 
conversation,  have  confessed  the  same  of  themselves. 
Of  all  which  past  centuries  offer  us,  Christendom 
and  its  founder,  Homer,  Shakespeare,  Raphael,  and 
Goethe  only  seem  to  me  unaffected  by  this  blight.  I 
sometimes  feel  as  if  I  were  transported  to  a  new  exist- 
ence and  had  not  taken  along  the  necessary  intel- 
lectual baggage,  as  if  wholly  altered  conditions  of 
life  compelled  a  wholly  new  order  of  thoughts.  For 
distance  is  no  longer  that  which  divides  men.  With 
sportive  ease  our  thoughts  traverse  the  circumference 
of  the  earth's  surface,  and  fly  from  each  individual  to 
every  other,  be  he  where  he  may.  The  discovery  and 
use  of  new  forces  of  nature  unite  entire  nations  in 
unceasing  mutual  toil.  New  experiences,  under  the 
pressure  of  which  our  conception  of  all  visible  and 
invisible  things  changes  in  uninterrupted  alternation, 
force  upon  us  new  modes  of  viewing  the  history  of  the 
evolution  of  humanity  as  well.  We  try  to  test  the 
force  embodied  in  great  men  by  its  pure  power  of 
illumination  and  action,  and  to  understand  and  set  it 
forth  in  their  individual  manifestation  otherwise  than 
as  heretofore.  How  I  labored  thirty  years  ago  to  pene- 
trate Voltaire  and  Frederick,  Mirabeau  and  Napoleon, 
Lessing  and  Winckelmann  for  their  own  sakes ;  and 
now  they  are  important,  and  intelligible  too,  only 
in  so  far  as  they  help  to  explain  the  present  time. 
My  intellectual  labor  is  now  concentrated  on  the 


JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS.  22$ 

present.  I  understand  it  because  it  lives.  Goethe 
himself  is  important  to  me  now  only  in  so  far  as  he 
still  lives  in  and  for  us,  and  the  "  young  Goethe  " 
in  so  far  as  he  makes  the  "  old  Goethe "  clear. 
Something  in  the  intellectual  atmosphere  of  the 
world  must  have  changed,  that  the  previous  centuries 
now  begin  to  pale  and  fade.  In  the  lives  of  Ada 
Negri  and  Johanna  Ambrosius  I  see  embodied  his- 
torical elements  which  require  measurement  and  for- 
mulation. They  grew  up  alone ;  they  were  of  lowly 
station.  They  speak  such  pure  speech.  They  are 
poor  women ;  they  do  not  hate  those  whose  lot  is 
more  fortunate. 

One  of  Johanna's  last  poems  (January,  1895)  is 
"  My  Last  Song."  Not  one  verse  in  this  song  which 
does  not  contain  an  insight.  How  beautifully  the  first 
three  strophes  introduce  what  the  poetess  calls  "  the 
whole  world  "  !  How  clear  all  the  images  are  to  our 
eye  !  How  they  alternate  !  What  contrasts  they 
form,  and  how  touchingly  the  last  strophe  reverts  to 
the  poet !  This  poem  explains  the  nameless  lays  of 
popular  poetry.  How  many  pieces  in  the  "  Wonder 
Horn "  may  have  originated  with  poor  girls  and 
women,  and  no  one  knows  who  invented  them  be- 
cause no  one  was  meant  to  know.  In  the  preface  to 
Jacob  Grimm's  book  on  German  minstrelsy  (which  he 
wrote  when  he  was  twenty-six  years  old),  he  speaks 
of  the  women  poets  of  old  German  ages.  He  says 
15 


226  JOHANNA  AMBROSIUS. 

of  German  minstrelsy :  "  I  might,  in  a  certain  sense, 
say  that  this  poetry  was  not  the  peculiar  property  of 
the  poet.  Among  other  things,  it  is  plain  that  no 
poetry  was  ever  more  feminine  than  this,  with  its 
never-failing  love  of  flowers,  with  its  quiet  beauty. 
Who  can  doubt  that  just  such  a  world  arose  in  the 
soul  of  the  women  of  that  day,  and  sounded  a  thou- 
sand such  harmonies,  more  tender  than  any  man 
ever  sang?  But  it  never  occurred  to  them  to  speak 
out ;  their  life  was  their  poetry  and  their  aspira- 
tion." So,  too,  Johanna  Ambrosius  waited  long  ere 
she  allowed  her  verses  to  be  made  public.  They 
are  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  a  lonely  girl  and  a 
lonely  woman. 

When  I  think  of  the  romance  which  ruled  the  early 
part  of  our  century,  the  present  time  seems  to  me 
like  a  flowery  field  of  grain  in  comparison  with  an 
endless,  silent  garden  full  of  gravestones.  Lenau, 
Uhland,  Rtickert,  Platen,  and  Heine  too,  tried  to  plant 
this  graveyard  so  thick  with  flowers  that  it  began  to 
live.  But  when  they  animated  the  dead  to  speak, 
aye,  to  sing  anew,  their  voices  always  sounded  as  if 
from  the  grave,  and  even  the  present  seemed  to  de- 
scend, in  order  to  speak  from  the  depths.  The 
frightful  burden  of  this  conception  of  the  world  has 
been  taken  from  us  by  the  present  age.  Humanity 
to-day  obeys  an  unconquerable  pressure  to  feel  free 
regardless  of  history. 


JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS.  22/ 

Platen  was  a  slave  to  his  distinction ;  Heine  to  a 
certain  vanity,  coupled  with  secret  self-contempt; 
Byron,  Lenau,  Uhland,  and  Riickert  cannot  conceal 
their  resignation,  which  oppresses  them ;  the  softly 
clanking  chains  which  fate  forged  for  each  of  them 
rattle  and  re-echo  in  their  verses.  The  loftiness  of 
their  souls  cannot  free  them  from  this  slavery.  Almost 
frantic  efforts  are  made  by  those  now  living  to  escape 
from  this  ban.  We  catch  the  first  sounds  of  the 
song  of  the  new  age  in  Petofy's  poetry.  As  Goethe 
once,  so  he  too  only  wishes  to  give  himself  utterance 
and  nothing  more.  So  far  as  I  may  judge  by  trans- 
lations the  other  Hungarian  poets  do  not  equal  him  by 
far.  So,  too,  famous  Poles,  Russians,  and  French  are 
mere  historians  compared  to  Petofy.  They  did  not 
poetize  for  themselves  alone.  They  strove,  openly  or 
secretly,  for  recognition  and  appreciation.  They  stand 
full  of  self-consciousness  amid  admirers.  How  little 
Petofy  cared  for  this  !  He  certainly  demanded  fame  ; 
but  he  surely  cared  not  whence  it  reached  him.  His 
supreme  sense  of  dominion  injures  nothing.  He 
weeps  and  laughs  in  the  face  of  the  world.  He  was 
badly  enough  off.  So  soon  as  he  begins  to  poetize, 
he  sits  upon  the  clouds,  and  the  world  lies  at  his  feet. 
He  summons  death,  but  means  to  live.  His  most 
woful  complaints  breathe  forth  love  of  life. 

Only  one  poet  of  the  present  equals  him,  and  per- 
haps surpasses  him,  —  Mistral,  whose  "  Mireio"  seems 


228  JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS. 

to  ring  out  from  the  lips  of  Homer.  From  Lamartine 
to  Victor  Hugo,  no  one  knows  the  secret  of  this  French 
Provencal  race,  of  uttering  happiness  and  unhappiness 
in  the  same  joyous  accents,  of  interweaving  endless 
bliss  and  woe,  as  if  there  were  nothing  to  choose 
between  them.  Petofy,  Mistral,  Goethe,  Shake- 
speare, and  Homer  sometimes  seem  to  me  the  recurring 
embodiment  of  a  single  poet.  This  is  the  great  pri- 
meval poet  of  mankind,  who  gives  vent  to  his  grief 
in  words  whose  melody  enchants  him.  Amidst  the 
despair  which  almost  breaks  his  heart,  he  is  utterly 
unable  to  grieve.  An  unknown  feeling  of  happiness 
in  mere  existence  never  leaves  him.  This  is  the 
secret  of  the  poetry  of  Ada  Negri  and  Johanna 
Ambrosius.  As  soon  as  they  begin  to  poetize,  that 
which  afflicts  them  becomes  a  fountain  of  joy. 
Johanna's  life  is  set  before  us,  from  her  youth  down  to 
the  latest  day ;  her  verse  contains  a  compensation  for 
the  worst  experiences.  They  are  formulae  for  turning 
lumps  of  coal  into  pure  gold.  Who  could  venture  to 
call  this  poor  peasant,  in  her  poverty  almost  beyond 
our  comprehension,  poor?  We  are  the  paupers, 
and  she  bestows  upon  us  alms.  The  wounds  from 
which  her  blood  flows,  as  Shakespeare  says,  become 
lips  to  whisper  to  her  sweet  comfort.  Read  the 
verses  on  the  death  of  a  child,  in  whose  coffin  she 
laid  the  doll  and  the  little  book  which  it  loved  best ; 
so  perfect  in  their  simplicity  that  they  must  comfort 


JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS.  229 

the  poet  herself.  So,  too,  the  poems  to  her  daughter 
and  to  her  son,  which  overflow  with  almost  wanton  bliss. 
This  woman,  with  her  hand  roughened  by  work, 
strikes  the  chords  of  the  human  heart,  as  if  they  were 
touched  by  fairy  fingers.  And  how  are  we  to  explain 
this  almost  incomprehensible  literary  discretion  ?  She 
offers  us  none  but  mature,  perfectly  formed  fruits. 

Does  not  the  poem  called  "  Lost  Happiness  "  sound 
as  if  taken  from  "The  Boy's  Wonder  Horn"?1  It 
seems  to  come  from  the  self-same  source  where  Walter 
von  der  Vogelweide  found  his  "  Alas  that  all  my  years 
are  spent," 2  and  Goethe  his  "  On  yonder  mountain 
top." 8  I  seem  to  know  the  melody  of  it,  as  if  I  had 
heard  it  sung  long  ages  since.  Not  a  verse  without  a 
picture.  This  poem  and  the  "  Last  Song,"  mentioned 
above,  are  chosen  quite  at  haphazard.  As  in  every 
field  where  flowers  grow,  so,  too,  in  Johanna's  book 
of  songs,  modest  and  conspicuous  blossoms  grow  side 
by  side.  But  all  are  flowers ;  and  if  they  grew  in  a 
distant  field,  they  are  none  the  less  sweet.  Where 
such  flowers  bloom,  in  East  Germany,  the  soil  is 
sacred  in  which  its  roots  are  planted;  and  we  need 
not  heed  whether  it  be  a  child  or  its  sick  mother  that 
plucks  it.  There  are  none  of  Johanna's  poems  which 
do  not  reveal  the  free  spirit  of  a  lofty  but  lonely 

1  A  famous  collection  of  old  German  popular  poetry. 

2  "  Ach,  wie  sind  verschwunclen  alle  meine  Jahre." 

3  "Da  droben  auf  jenem  Berge." 


230  JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS. 

nature,  which  has  recognized,  after  long  inward 
strife  though  it  be,  the  cruel  blows  of  its  destiny  as 
a  part  of  the  higher  harmony. 

It  is  the  duty  of  the  nations  to-day  to  search  out 
those  who  do,  think,  and  utter  the  best  things.  When  I 
look  into  the  past,  it  sometimes  seems  to  me  impossible 
that  the  nations  should  have  been  content  with  such 
wretched  spiritual  harvests.  One  of  the  finest  signs 
of  the  present  day  is  the  freedom  with  which  every  word 
is  allowed  to  make  its  way  up  from  the  lowest  depths 
and  through  the  thickest  walls.  It  is  no  longer, 
"  Many  are  called,  but  few  are  chosen ; "  but  "  All  are 
called,  and  many  are  chosen." 

Ada  Negri's  spiritual  culture  of  a  higher  order  and 
her  knowledge  of  the  outer  world,  since  poverty, 
seclusion,  and  lowliness  cut  her  off  from  all  inter- 
course, was  gained  from  newspapers,  which  found 
their  way  to  her  remote  village.  She  sent  her  poems, 
one  by  one,  to  the  newspapers.  And  they  printed 
them.  With  no  help  from  intermediaries,  the  child 
of  a  poor  factory-worker,  whose  hiding-place  was 
known  to  none,  became  known  to  the  whole  Italian 
people.  And  thus  too  the  sisters  Martha  and 
Johanna  Ambrosius,  who  surely  owed  much  to  their 
father's  books  and  the  village  school  up  to  their 
eleventh  year,  had  the  "  Gartenlaube," 1  which  they 
contrived  to  see,  to  thank  for  their  intercourse  with 

1  A  popular  German  magazine. 


JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS.  231 

the  world.  They  learned  to  know  the  German  people 
through  this  journal.  Johanna's  first  verses  were  sent 
to  it.  Half  nameless,  loose  leaves  did  the  work  which 
could  have  been  achieved  in  no  other  way. 

All  speak  of  the  power  of  the  press  to-day.  An 
invisible  and  impassioned  intercourse  between  unseen 
writers  and  unseen  readers  goes  on  untiringly  and 
unendingly. 

Newspapers  and  magazines  give  us  occasional 
chance  reading.  No  regular  instruction  is  afforded 
or  offered  us  here.  Of  one  article  we  read  only  the 
beginning,  of  others  the  end.  We  take  up  the  sheet 
contemptuously  and  indifferently,  and  throw  it  down 
again.  We  seldom  ask  what  pen  can  have  written  it. 
Good  and  bad  style  are  alike  to  us.  But  who  would 
give  up  newspaper  reading?  It  enters  into  us,  and 
quiets  the  longing  for  something  which  we  should 
not  otherwise  know.  Journals  contain  the  most 
heedless  pictures  of  daily  life.  It  gathers  them  up  in 
a  wild,  unrestrained  confusion,  and  reproduces  them. 
Journals  are  the  natural  indispensable  food.  We  read 
them  as  a  herd  browses  in  a  meadow.  They  turn 
hither  and  thither  without  choosing,  munching  flowers 
and  grass  indiscriminately,  as  they  come.  We  are 
always  reading  newspapers,  —  at  breakfast,  at  dinner,  at 
supper,  in  the  horse-cars,  on  the  railroad.  Wherever 
there  is  eating  and  drinking,  we  demand  a  newspaper 
as  refreshment.  We  carry  them  about  with  us ;  we 


232  JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS. 

have  always  money  and  room  for  them.  We  do  not 
find  fault  with  their  pages  when  they  rouse  our 
anger ;  we  do  not  thank  them  when  they  amuse  and 
interest  us,  not  even  when  they  inspire  us.  The 
newspaper  takes  the  place  of  friendship,  intimacy,  al- 
most of  the  family.  We  even  read  the  advertisements, 
and  for  an  instant  fancy  ourselves  in  the  places  of  those 
who  buy,  let,  sell,  hire,  give  or  wish  to  take  lessons, 
look  for  places  of  all  sorts,  for  houses,  servants,  maids, 
husbands,  wives,  or  children,  whom  they  promise  to 
bring  up  properly,  —  a  vast  social  intercourse  of  to- 
day going  on  between  people  who  remain  unknown 
each  to  the  other,  and  in  which  we  ourselves,  unknow- 
ing and  unknown,  take  part  How  could  the  glorious 
days  at  Friedrichsruh  ever  have  become  a  festival  in 
which  the  whole  German  nation  simultaneously  shared, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  vigorous  work  of  anonymous 
newspaper  writers,  who  had  but  one  ambition,  —  to  see 
and  hear  as  much  as  possible,  and  to  write  it  down  as 
rapidly  and  exactly  as  possible,  —  so  that  it  seemed  as 
if  every  German  saw  and  heard  Bismarck !  This  is 
the  way  in  which  the  present  age  lives  her  own  history. 
What  are  Greece  and  Rome  to  this,  to-day?  To  be 
sure,  we  are  still  wont  to  turn  over  the  vast  heaps  of 
grain  bequeathed  to  us  by  antiquity;  and  since  we 
can  make  no  more  bread  from  them,  we  think  the 
supply  is  giving  out ;  we  must  search  with  greater  eager- 
ness, dig  up  and  range  in  museums  what  the  earth 


JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS,  233 

consents  to  yield.  But  faith  in  the  magic  power  of 
those  collections  has  perished,  and  the  time  will  soon 
come  when  we  shall  ask  more  earnestly,  to  what  end 
so  much  gold  is  lavished  in  dishing  up  these  frag- 
ments. We  demand  something  new.  The  news- 
papers are  first  to  tell  us  the  news ;  they  spread  glory 
and  honor  abroad.  They  march  in  the  forefront  of 
our  literary  movement ;  and  the  same  paper  which  we 
accuse  of  falsehood  to-day,  moves  us  to  gratitude  and 
assent  to-morrow. 

Ada  Negri  and  Johanna  Ambrosius  have  the 
newspapers  chiefly  to  thank  for  style  and  universal 
insight.  If  I  were  asked  to  state  precisely  what 
strikes  me  most  strongly  in  the  poems  of  the  two 
women,  I  should  not  depart  from  the  phrase  "  the 
spirit  of  the  present."  This  is  the  noblest,  the  cease- 
less lesson  of  our  journals,  —  to  prize  the  present  more 
highly  than  the  past.  As  I  have  already  said,  I  do 
not  know  why  the  past  has  begun  to  pale  and  fade 
for  me,  nor  could  I  give  any  explanation  of  the 
word  "  dissolution "  here.  The  framework  of  the 
history  of  German  literature  once  ingeniously  con- 
structed by  Gervinus  no  longer  stands  firm  to  me. 
I  no  longer  see  a  "  romantic  school,"  but  individual 
poets,  who  appear  to  me  from  very  different  points  of 
view  than  those  hitherto  accepted.  A  certain  lack  of 
temporality  surrounds  them.  I  ask  less  what  their 
value  once  was  to  their  contemporaries,  than  what 


234  JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS. 

they  are  worth  to  me  now.  Whence  comes  the 
strange  hatred  of  the  social  democrats  for  history, 
that  of  the  younger  writers  of  the  school  of  Ibsen  for 
the  older  literature,  that  of  the  Wagnerians  for  the 
older  music,  that  of  the  Secessionists  for  previous 
painting  ?  The  offerings  of  the  devotees  of  these  new 
tendencies  seem  in  part  childish,  in  part  not  even 
genuine ;  but  the  public  impulse  is  a  fact.  Mankind 
awaits  something.  It  is  not  mere  curiosity.  A  desire  for 
fresh  intellectual  images  has  gradually  taken  possession 
of  humanity  everywhere.  The  past  shall  no  longer  weigh 
us  down.  Biirgers's  '  Ah,  leave  the  dead  to  rest !  "  is 
the  inscription  on  the  forefront  of  the  palace  of  the 
present.  If  I  omit  Homer,  Shakespeare,  Goethe,  and 
Raphael  from  the  great  list  of  the  proscribed,  it  is 
because  an  enduring,  all-powerful  present  surrounds 
their  works,  apparently  renewed  in  all  ages  by  innate 
power,  like  the  orbits  of  the  great  planets,  heedless  of 
our  common  figures,  reckoning  only  years  of  light. 
We  are  now  at  the  close  of  a  world-embracing  intel- 
lectual ice  period ;  and  it  is  the  sudden  melting  of  the 
glaciers,  the  downward  rush  of  unsuspected  floods, 
which  alarms  but  at  the  same  time  fills  us  with  enthu- 
siasm. The  history  of  Ada  Negri  is  full  of  the  same 
breathless  violence  with  which  the  life  of  Italy  now 
advances.  It  is  all  explosions.  The  ceaseless  roar  of 
this  literary  cannonade  has  already  become  a  natural 
thing  in  Italy.  They  feel  the  need  there,  wherever 


JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS.  2$$ 

bread  is  baked,  to  stand  on  burning  lava.  The 
"  Gartenlaube  "  was  a  gentler  nurse  to  the  two  child 
workers  in  their  village.  But  to  them  too  it  showed 
the  possibility  of  winning  literary  fame  in  the  direct 
way.  It  taught  them  the  intellectual  equality  of  man, 
brought  the  breath  of  the  national  German  movement 
into  their  solitude,  taught  Johanna  to  have  faith  in 
herself,  and  inspired  the  poor  child  with  the  "  ardent 
hunger  for  knowledge,"  which  "as  a  child  it  expressed 
in  tears."  Johanna  learned  from  newspapers  and  the 
New  Testament  the  lesson  of  noble  resignation  which 
forms  the  keynote  to  her  poetry.  Although  I  men- 
tion Goethe  and  Shakespeare  here,1  I  would  not  com- 
pare Johanna  Ambrosius  and  Ada  Negri  to  these  two  ; 
but  they  are  of  the  same  race  by  intellectual  kinship. 
They  are  nobly  born.  Where  the  true  poet  speaks,  a 
picture  appears  before  our  spiritual  eyes ;  when  any- 
thing gladdens  him,  it  also  gladdens  us ;  when  poets 
grieve,  they  compel  us  also  to  grieve.  There  is  a 
token  by  which  we  may  know  the  genuine  poet,  —  the 
motto  invisibly  printed  before  each  of  his  poems : 
"  From  deepest  need  I  cry  aloud  to  thee  !  "  So,  too, 
"  God  granted  "  the  poor  ailing  peasantwoman  leave 
"to  say  what  she  suffered." 

New   duties   spring   to  life  to-day  from  the   com- 

1  Johanna  imitated  some  of  Goethe's  verses  in  a  striking 
and  innocent  fashion,  although  this  adoption  seems  only 
obligatory. 


236  JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS. 

munity  of  thought  and  feeling  between  the  races  of 
mankind.  When  the  "  Elbe  "  sinks,  when  an  earth- 
quake destroys  cities,  when  avalanches  and  mountains 
descend  upon  villages,  or  fire  and  plague  demand 
their  victims,  it  is  the  dead  of  all  mankind  that  are 
mourned  and  of  whose  survivors  the  world  takes 
charge.  No  one  is  to  blame  for  the  poor  peasant- 
woman's  fate ;  yet  the  sick  body  of  the  poetess 
Johanna  Ambrosius  and  her  children  must  be  nursed 
and  cared  for.  It  is  our  first  duty  to  ask  what  may 
happen,  and  then  to  do  something. 


JOHANNA    AMBROSIUS. 


A  BOUT  a  year  ago  [says  an  American  journalist] 
^~^-  there  appeared  in  "Gartenlaube,"  a  periodical 
published  at  Leipsic,  Germany,  a  poem,  "The  Last 
Song,"  signed  "  Johanna  Ambrosius."  .  .  .  The  name 
was  familiar,  but  the  writer  was  unknown.  The  little 
songs,  with  nothing  of  the  subtleties  of  the  world  in 
them,  but  the  high  and  wide  simplicity  of  the  eternities, 
—  life,  death,  sin,  and  sorrow,  the  beatitudes,  —  that 
had  appeared  from  time  to  time  over  the  name,  had  won 
their  way  insensibly  into  the  hearts  of  the  readers  of 
"  Gartenlaube,"  had  been  copied  far  and  wide,  and  had 
reached  even  the  Empress  in  her  palace,  who  taught 
them  to  the  young  princes  at  her  knee.  Now,  when 
this  "  Last  Song  "  rang  like  a  cry  from  a  heart  too  long 
tortured  to  other  tortured  hearts,  there  was  instant 
response,  almost  consternation. 

Who  was  Johanna  Ambrosius,  and  was  this  indeed 
her  last  song  ?  God  forbid  !  .  .  .  One,  two,  three,  four 
editions  of  the  book  appeared  in  as  many  months,  — 
the  voice  crying  in  the  wilderness  of  city  streets  and 
the  desolation  of  forests  and  mines,  but  still  the  one 
crying,  was  invisible,  silent  now,  as  if  the  last  song  had 


238  JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS. 

indeed  been  sung.  With  a  copy  of  the  book  a  mes- 
senger journeyed  with  decorations  and  honors  from  the 
Empress  to  a  remote  village  of  East  Prussia,  —  the 
bleak  way  taken  by  Queen  Louise  in  her  flight  to  Tilsit 
after  the  battle  of  Jena,  almost  to  the  Russian  border. 

Over  frozen  rivers  where  men  fished  through  the 
ice,  around  ice-sheeted  lakes,  over  snow-clad  hills  and 
bitter  winds  from  the  Baltic,  ever  within  sound  of  the 
moaning  sea  and  the  sighing  firs,  the  St.  Petersburg 
train  rushed  on  through  villages  of  huddled,  half-buried 
huts,  scorning  to  pause,  flinging  an  occasional  bundle 
of  papers  to  the  dwellers  in  the  desolation.  The 
peasants  emerged  almost  from  the  roofs  to  watch  the 
train  go  by,  stopping  their  toil  scarcely  longer  than  the 
peasants  of  Barbizon  drop  their  tools  for  the  Angelus, 
to  catch  a  breath  from  that  strange,  panting,  pulsing 
engine  that  stood  for  progress  to  the  world,  for  noth- 
ing to  them  but  a  sense  of  their  helplessness  and 
unique  misery. 

On  and  on  rushed  the  train  bearing  the  messenger 
of  the  Empress,  through  the  village  where  Queen 
Louise  wrote  on  a  pane  of  glass  with  her  diamond 
ring  that  verse  from  Goethe  in  her  extremity,  — 

"  Who  never  ate  his  bread  with  tears, 

Who  never  in  the  solemn  hours  of  night 
Lay  sunk  in  gloomy  fears,  — 

He  knows  ye  not,  ye  heavenly  powers." 

If  eating  the  bread  with  tears  brings  God  nearer, 
then  He  must  indeed  be  very  near  the  dwellers  in  the 
northeast  corner  of  Germany.  Nothing  but  toil  and 


JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS.  239 

misery  from  eternity  to  eternity.  Surely  the  messenger 
would  find  the  poetess  in  one  of  the  feudal  castles 
which  at  long  intervals  sat  in  the  midst  of  vast  estates, 
—  a  great  lady,  perhaps,  her  heart  aching  with  the 
knowledge  of  the  misery  of  dependants  whom  she 
could  not  help,  —  shut  in  with  them  in  these  desolate 
snow  wastes  for  many  months  of  the  year,  crying  out 
for  her  peasant  children,  from  whom  all  expression 
must  have  been  crushed  generations  ago  by  the  hard- 
ness of  their  lives. 

At  last  he  left  the  train  and  entered  a  sledge  for  the 
bitter  drive  to  Gross-Wersmeninken  with  a  driver 
who  spoke  some  strange  dialect.  Farther  and  farther, 
almost  to  the  border  of  Russia,  the  firs  growing  thicker 
and  darker,  bearing  with  patience  their  burden  of  snow 
or  flinging  rebellious  arms  to  the  gray  sky;  torrents 
frozen  on  the  steeps ;  stars  shining  far  above,  but 
scarcely  a  friendly  gleam  from  the  miserable  dwellings 
below,  shut  in  to  their  eaves,  held  down  by  the  soft 
heaviness  of  snow ;  plodding  peasants  cumbered  with 
clothes ;  round  wooden  churches  with  tiny  belfries  in 
the  midst  of  clustered  cabins. 

Surely,  surely !  Not  here !  But  yes,  here  was 
Gross-Wersmeninken,  more  hopeless  in  its  poverty 
than  the  other  villages,  and  the  snow-buried  house 
of  Johanna  Ambrosius  —  Frau  Voigt  —  whom  the 
Empress  of  Germany  would  honor. 

If  a  jubilee  had  rung  from  the  stricken  heart  of 
Siberia,  the  German  world  could  not  have  been  more 
astonished  or  profoundly  moved  than  that  the  spirit 


240  JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS. 

of  Goethe  should  awaken  in  this  corner  of  Germany,  — 
scarcely  Teuton ;  Russian,  Polish,  ancient  Lithuanian, 
almost  Laplandish,  if  you  will,  the  same  sun  shining 
on  it,  indeed,  that  purples  the  slopes  of  the  Rhine  and 
gilds  the  wheat-fields  of  the  Lower  Danube,  but  con- 
tracted by  the  icy  blasts  from  Arctic  seas  and  plains. 
The  same  religion  consoling,  their  feste  Burg  is 
Luther's  God ;  the  language  of  Luther  taught  them  in 
the  schools,  but  language  and  religion  reaching  them 
through  what  layers  of  habit  and  superstition,  con- 
tracted by  centuries  of  privation.  The  myths  and 
legends  of  the  pines  and  the  sea,  the  amber  witch  who 
gathers  the  precious  mineral  of  the  Baltic,  standing 
knee-deep  in  frozen  spray ;  the  werewolves  of  the 
forest,  and  swan  maidens  of  the  lakes ;  the  siren  of  the 
waterfalls,  locked  in  the  torrent  half  the  year,  luring 
them  to  toil  on  the  slopes,  only  to  see  their  labor  lost 
in  some  vicious  caprice  of  the  spirit,  —  all  these  are 
nearer  and  more  terrible  than  the  bull  of  a  pope,  more 
potent  than  a  protesting  monk. 

In  the  remotest  village  of  this  latest-acquired,  not 
yet  amalgamated  province  of  Germany,  Johanna 
Ambrosius  was  born,  lived,  toiled,  suffered  incredible 
hardships  and  privations,  hungered  in  the  body, 
thirsted  in  the  soul,  wept  for  knowledge  unattainable, 
gained  the  highest  knowledge  of  all,  and  almost  died 
before  the  messenger  of  the  Empress  found  her. 

A  woman  of  forty,  but  bent  and  worn  to  sixty,  with 
scarred,  toil-hardened  hands  that  lay  idle  outside  the 
cover  of  a  poor  bed  in  the  snow-darkened  cottage. 


JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS.  241 

The  fever  of  pneumonia  burned  on  the  thin  cheek, 
and  a  still  high  light  in  the  dark  eyes.  On  the  bed 
lay  a  pencil  and  some  torn  scraps  of  paper  —  the 
margins  of  "  Gartenlaube  "  —  the  paper  got  through 
incredible  denials ;  the  Christmas  candle  and  bit  of 
meat,  the  sacrifice  of  the  last  fish  taken  from  the  ice- 
mailed  river,  the  last  drop  of  milk  for  cheese  from  the 
single  precious  cow,  as  warmly  sheltered  as  the  chil- 
dren that  played  with  pine-tree  babies  on  the  bare 
floor  before  a  fire  of  fagots  from  the  forest. 

The  story  comes  to  us  through  so  many  mediums  as 
to  make  the  task  of  telling  it  wellnigh  impossible,  — 
through  the  letters  to  Herr  Schrattenthal  from  a  sister 
who  cared  for  the  poetess  in  what  was  thought  to  be 
her  last  illness  ;  through  the  messenger  of  the  Empress, 
who  brought  a  famous  physician  to  one  who  had  been 
ill  all  her  life  and  never  had  the  relief  of  medicine  ; 
from  a  book  of  travels  in  East  Prussia,  Lithuania,  and 
Poland;  and  through  a  sketch  by  Herman  Grimm  in 
the  "  Deutsches  Rundschau." 

Not  a  word  does  she  tell  of  all  these  external  things 
herself.  She  was  born,  her  cradle  was  rocked  by  the 
waterfall  by  a  curious  native  device  of  a  wheel  at- 
tached to  the  rocker,  while  her  mother  toiled  on  the 
slope  carrying  soil  to  the  naked  rocks.  "  The  fragrant 
breeze  of  May  "  was  the  gentlest  thing  she  ever  knew. 
While  it  blew  she  gathered  the  fagots  against  the 
winter's  cold.  She  mended  her  father's  nets  in  winter, 
oiled  his  great  boots  so  that  he  could  stand  in  the  icy 
water  to  fish,  dug  the  potatoes,  cut  the  scanty  wheat, 
16 


242  JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS. 

gathered  pine  needles  to  fill  the  beds,  sheared  the 
sheep,  spun  and  wove,  looked  forward  all  the  year  to 
the  splendid  candles  of  Christmas  that  dispelled  the 
long  night  in  the  snow-buried  cottage. 

In  turn  she  made  a  bed  for  the  cow  and  the  small 
horse  that  pulled  the  sledge  to  market  with  fish  and 
cheese,  she  knitted  and  served,  she  turned  the  curds 
and  chopped  the  wood,  laboring  in  the  field  and 
forest.  On  Sunday  she  went  to  the  church ;  the  tink- 
ling bell  the  only  sound  heard  from  eternity  to  eternity, 
but  the  moan  of  the  ocean,  the  murmur  of  the  pines,  and 
the  subdued  voices  of  men  and  animals.  The  hymns 
of  the  Sabbath  were  long  prayers  or  chants.  No  song 
ever  rose  to  heaven  that  gushed  out  of  the  heart  of 
nature.  The  birds  were  birds  of  passage,  scarcely 
stopping  long  enough  to  nest,  rear  a  brood,  and  fly. 

Incessant  toil,  beginning  before  light  and  toiling 
till  dawn  ;  studying  the  few  scant  books  that  fed  the 
flame  of  a  desire  for  knowledge  without  giving  it  any- 
thing to  burn ;  toiling  from  early  dark  till  late  all 
through  a  bitter  childhood,  and  winning  hard  food,  hard 
rest  and  shelter.  Art  and  science  and  literature  were 
untranslated  terms;  books  an  unbelievable  tale ;  pic- 
tures and  statues  the  strange  attributes  of  Heaven,  not 
anything  tangible  that  one  might  have  and  hold  ;  beauty 
and  comfort  and  leisure  abstract  qualities  that  a  library 
of  dictionaries  could  not  have  defined  to  her  under- 
standing. 

All  that  she  understood  were  snow  and  ice,  the  com- 
plaining firs  burdened  with  snow,  the  icy  winds,  toil, 


JO  PI  ANN  A   AMBROSIUS.  243 

darkness,  patience,  the  elusive  hope  of  the  cascade 
laughing  and  mocking  in  the  sun  of  May,  its  laughing 
locked  in  the  embrace  of  October,  "  the  fragrant 
breeze  of  May"  wafting  a  breath  of  Heaven  from  the 
south,  and  taking  its  caresses  elsewhither. 

So  on  that,  the  kindest  thing  she  knew,  she  sent  her 
message.  No  "  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  "  to  her  to 
whom  Burns's  picture  of  Scotch  humble  life  would  have 
been  a  dream  of  paradise;  no  dimpling  streams,  or 
scampering  mice  of  the  field,  or  daisy  ;  no  banks  and 
braes  to  bloom  so  fair,  nature  as  full  of  care  as  her 
heart.  Nothing  but  herself  and  God,  human  nature 
and  other  nature  and  the  eternities.  She  knew  noth- 
ing else ;  but  those  who  live  in  palaces  knew  not  so 
much. 

She  says  when  she  writes  she  feels  an  indescribable 
exaltation.  Hunger  and  thirst,  darkness  and  cold  and 
pain,  afflict  her  no  more.  On  those  torn,  soiled  scraps 
of  paper  come  couplets  as  exquisitely  cut  as  a  cameo. 
In  writing  she  found  the  liberty,  freedom,  light,  denied 
her  elsewhere.  She  went  out  to  service  in  the  fields  as 
a  girl.  She  returned  and  married  a  playmate,  volunta- 
rily taking  up  a  life  of  toil  like  that  of  her  mother.  No 
more  can  be  wrested  from  that  land  than  shelter,  pota- 
toes, and  bread.  Her  children  were  born  to  be  rocked 
by  the  waterfall  as  she  had  been. 

At  forty  years  of  age  she  had  one  more  sorrow.  She 
feared  she  could  not  live  to  care  for  her  children. 
There  is  no  physician  in  those  desolate  wastes.  From 
her  sick-bed  she  sent  her  last  song  to  "caress  the 


244  JOHANNA   AMBROSIUSi 

world  as  it  wings  its  way."  Cheer  for  the  cheerless, 
comfort  for  the  dying,  courage  for  the  coward,  forgive- 
ness for  sin,  pity  for  sorrow,  peace  for  strife.  This 
brave  song  out  of  a  heart  faint  with  denial  and  longing 
only  for  a  forgotten  grave  under  snow-burdened  pines  ! 

All  the  beatitudes,  —  oh,  ye  who  have  so  much 
more  and  have  not  these  ! 

She  could  tell  nothing  more  than  these  bare  facts  to 
the  Empress,  who  sent  from  a  palace  to  learn  the 
secret  of  a  lofty  spiritual  life.  When  she  wrote,  she  was 
so  moved,  so  transported  out  of  herself  and  the  world, 
that  her  tired  body  seemed  that  of  a  stranger  and  her 
spirit  free.  The  same  sensation  comes  to  one  in  read- 
ing her  poems.  They  have  no  environment.  They  are 
true  of  the  disembodied.  In  this  ethereal  space  the 
poetess  makes  us  conscious  only  of  existence,  not  of 
time  or  space  or  circumstance.  The  power  to  trans- 
form intolerable  misery  into  freedom  belongs  only  to 
the  greatest  poets  and  religious  teachers.  They  alone 
succeed  in  detaching  themselves  from  externals,  and 
become  oblivious  of  garments  and  creeds  and  creature 
comforts. 

Her  very  ignorance  of  the  science  and  art  and  lit- 
erature and  accumulated  wisdom  of  the  world  invests 
her  work  with  fundamental  truth,  —  truth  without  tra- 
dition becoming  universal,  fresh  from  the  hand  of  God  ; 
no  more,  no  less,  now  than  at  any  time,  no  more  in 
any  future  day ;  because  we  make  small  change  of  it 
and  circulate  it  freely,  makes  it  no  more  in  the  aggre- 
gate, only  the  more  widely  diffused  and  recognized. 


JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS.  245 

Science  and  art  do  that  for  us.  Now  and  then  we  get 
the  same  old  coins  from  a  new  mint,  and  they  seem 
like  a  revelation  and  are  hoarded.  And  we  know  we 
are  getting  the  same  treasures  back,  having  searched 
for  them  and  found  them  infinitely  subdivided, 
tarnished,  worn  with  irreverent  use,  embellished  with 
all  the  discoveries,  speculations,  and  achievements  of 
mankind. 

Just  because  she  was  so  poor,  so  obscure,  so  lowly, 
so  shut  away  from  records  and  philosophy,  the  funda- 
mental facts  of  spiritual  experience  were  revealed  to 
Johanna  Ambrosius.  Her  verse  has  in  it  the  invisible 
life  of  Germany,  and  rings  like  those  old  folk  songs, 
religious  hymns,  and  lullabies  that  form  so  large  a  part 
of  German  literature,  —  the  minne  song  and  the  meis- 
ter  song  find  an  echo.  Her  life  is  a  counterpart  of 
life  in  the  days  when  women  took  "  courage  like  a 
flame  "  to  warrior  husbands,  —  their  praises  sweet, 
their  blame.  This  is  the  secret  of  the  astonishing 
power  of  her  poetry.  Such  inconceivable  toil  and 
woe  were  hers  that,  in  relieving  her  own  sorrows,  she 
must  perforce  relieve  others  groaning  under  intolerable 
burdens  of  whatever  nature. 

She  writes  of  simple  things,  —  the  death  of  a  child, 
its  toys  laid  in  the  coffin ;  every  infrequent  flower,  in 
those  Northern  meadows  briefly  bright;  every  bird 
note,  longed  for  ten  months  of  the  year ;  every  nurs- 
ling of  the  snow,  winter  greens  and  berries,  and  ex- 
panding cone  of  the  pine.  Wherever  a  flower  grew 
was  holy  ground,  every  flower  sacred,  —  nothing  more 


246  JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS. 

so  but  an  invalid  or  a  child.  God's  best  gifts  were 
always  for  the  very  young,  the  old,  and  the  sick.  She 
read  the  "  Gartenlaube  "  with  amazement,  scarcely  with 
belief,  of  generous  soils  and  climes,  beautiful  build- 
ings and  pictures,  Court  society,  the  army  reviews,  the 
telegraph,  swifter  than  her  breeze  of  May  that  was  to 
carry  her  message  round  the  world. 

But  it  taught  her  some  other  things,  —  the  spiritual 
brotherhood  of  mankind,  the  impotent  sorrow  of  a 
nation  for  the  death  of  a  King,  the  joy  of  a  palace 
betrothal,  the  breath  of  the  German  national  move- 
ment, the  striving  and  straining  for  freedom,  the  long- 
ing for  peace  that  assails  mankind.  "They  are  all 
like  us,"  she  said  to  her  sister.  "  Think  of  them  in 
their  environment,  and  they  are  archangels  and  arch- 
demons,  but  strip  them  of  circumstances  and  they  are 
joy,  sorrow,  aspiration,  hindrances,  desire  for  knowl- 
edge, that  has  made  me,  too,  burst  into  tears.  '  Blessed 
are  they  who  mourn,  for  they  shall  be  comforted.'  " 

"  Oh,  I  could  comfort  them.  To  mourn  is  common. 
The  thing  for  which  one  mourns  is  external.  Go  now, 
my  song  from  me,  on  your  world-wide  mission  of  com- 
forting. From  deepest  necessity  I  cry  unto  all  who 
mourn." 

Thus  it  was  that  her  cry  reached  the  world.  She 
has  been  brought  back  from  death,  and  placed  in  com- 
fort with  a  small  annuity  from  the  Empress,  but  she  has 
not  been  removed  from  her  environment.  That  would 
be  to  cage  the  singing  bird.  The  sea  still  moans,  the 
pines  sigh  about  her  cottage,  the  waterfall  is  annually 


JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS.  247 

unlocked  from  the  arms  of  winter  by  the  sun  of  May, 
the  shy  flowers  unfold  in  meadow  and  forest,  the  peas- 
ant population  wage  their  old  war  with  darkness  and 
cold  and  soil  about  her ;  but  Johanna  has  enough  to 
relieve  wretchedness,  —  books,  pictures,  leisure,  —  all 
the  incredible  things  dreamed  of,  and  fair  white 
paper. 

She  has  scarcely  recovered  from  her  nearly  fatal  ill- 
ness. She  is  bent  and  old,  her  hair  nearly  white ;  her 
hands,  that  strike  the  strings  of  the  heart  of  Germany 
so  true,  are  knotted  and  scarred  with  toil.  She  has 
come  up  out  of  the  valley  of  the  shadow  to  rest  in  an 
undreamed-of  paradise.  Whether  she  writes  more  or 
not,  the  world  already  owes  her  a  debt.  Her  reward 
will  not  be  a  forgotten  grave.  The  singer,  too,  was 
brave,  or  the  song  would  never  have  been  sung. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-50m-7,'54  (5990) 444 


THE  LJBI?APY 
JDMIVEKP  TY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


PT 


Yoigt  - 


Poems  by  Johanna 
V38E  ^mbrosius  _ 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  001  278  966  5 


1896 


PT 
2615 
V88E 
1896 


DOXEY 


SAN  FRANCISCO 


